


Contentiously Amiable

by KToon



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, BAMF Peter Parker, Blood and Violence, Breif Mention of Suicide, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Language, Gen, Gun Violence, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Kidnapped Peter Parker, Kidnapped Tony Stark, Kidnapping, Minor Character Death, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Protective Peter Parker, Restraints, The Author Regrets Nothing, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Torture, but it does get better I swear, i have some kinda mean plans, no beta we die like men, this gets dark guys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:28:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 38,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22122598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KToon/pseuds/KToon
Summary: They were told not to touch. They were told not to talk. But they did so anyway.Stabbing one was like stabbing the other. Condemning one was like condemning them both.Tony swore that once they were both out of here, they'd never lose sight of each other. Not if they got out. When they got out. Because they were getting out. They had to get out. There was no other option, no reason for them not to.But for now Tony had to stare into Peter's pained eyes, a malevolent mirror of his own. There was a fire in them, raging to be released, to murder everybody in sight. They were both tired, but had never been more alert. They were both silent, but had never exchanged so many words.They were getting out of here. And when they did? There'd be hell to pay.
Relationships: Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 106
Kudos: 206





	1. Good Days and Bad Days

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! This is my first fanfiction that actually isn't Supernatural, and I'm quite nervous, so please be gentle.
> 
> My main goal of this story was pacing and characterization, so feedback would be so appreciated in that department! I've gotta say Peter and Tony are one of my most favorite father/son relationships out of any movie or television show, and it makes me excited to write them. Super nervous still, yeah, but nevertheless enthused!
> 
> A few quick notes:
> 
> I'm not a doctor. Never have been, never will be, so there may be some medical inaccuracies, but I try and keep everything realistic as much as possible. It's also been a long time since I've watched any other MCU films that weren't Infinity War, Endgame, or FFH, so there may be some canonical inaccuracies; but, again, trying to keep it as realistic and accurate as possible! 
> 
> If you have trigger warnings, please look at the tags before reading each chapter. I will add more as the story progresses.
> 
> This fic was not beta read, so please note that all mistakes are my own and please point any out to me!
> 
> I'm going to try and get a chapter out at least once a week. 10 is the number I've set for myself, but that number could change.
> 
> (Starker shippers please stay away from this fic, pretty please.)
> 
> Enjoy!

There were good days, and there were bad days. At this point, it was becoming almost too easy for Peter to decipher what it was going to be. It all began when he would wake up.

Sometimes, he’d open his eyes after spending uncountable hours studying for one of his tests and know everything would go smoothly—getting the A, being able to successfully dodge Flash, realize he could go home with an unburdened mind and unleash his alternate, parallel personality on the criminals of Queens. It was an added bonus if Mr. Stark would call and ask him if he wanted to tinker on one of the new prototypes for his suit, too.

May, after quite a bit of convincing, had settled on allowing Peter to use his best judgement on what was best for the night. If he wanted to stay at Mr. Stark’s, then that was fine by her, but he better make sure he had clean clothes and called her at least twice before the end of the night to tell her that everything was okay. Her words, not his. And besides, he would always call her three times anyway.

Most of the time he came home by the end of the night, and only stayed over when it got too late and he lost track of time, but he did find himself spending more and more time at Mr. Stark’s. Currently they were working on model seven of his spider suit, which would bring new thrills and arithmetical problems to be solved around every rounded corner. Peter thoroughly enjoyed this. It made him think logically and challenged him indefinitely, and though he wasn’t stupid and knew Mr. Stark could solve each of these problems in his sleep after making so many of these suits, it still gave him the satisfaction that he was finally making a suit the way he liked it.

Don’t get him wrong, the Iron Spider was a thing of beauty. The way it enswathed his form exquisitely and securely, had everything prepared for any type of dangerous situation he encountered, and flawlessly supported him from every angle was all a teenaged superhero could ask for. But…it felt like too much, if that was the right way to word it? The armor didn’t feel appropriate. It felt more like Ironman and too little like Spider-man. Which of course there’s nothing wrong with that, he would argue to Mr. Stark, but he wanted to finally make his own identity. His own suit, his own brain, his own creations and creativity.

Mr. Stark ended up having no qualms with that, and actually showed his enthusiastic but also scrupulous support of the idea. As long as it had the proper safety measures. Again, Mr. Stark’s words, not Peter’s.

Aside from this though, there _were_ the bad days. Far and few between, but they did come, and _boy_ did they come full force.

They made themselves present first when he was fourteen. When he went on that fieldtrip and was bitten by that infamous spider, only to suffer from incapacitating and painful illness for the following few days. When he had that fight with May and Ben, and ended up leaving the house out of rage, only to go to the grocery store to buy dinner to make up for it. When he let the robber run past him, without lifting a finger. When he clung onto Ben’s bloody, twitching—

They resurfaced when he was fifteen. When he woke up and somehow knew he wouldn’t be going to that Homecoming, even though Liz had graciously accepted his offer. When he had to ruin her life for the sake of Mr. Stark and so many other lives at stake, because he had no other choice. (That’s what he tells himself. Sometimes he has a hard time believing it. But bad guys must be stopped, right? _Right?_ ) When he opened his eyes after passing out on top of that rollercoaster’s platform from shock, dreading the conversation that he would soon be having with Mr. Stark.

And now they lust after him again, today, with a stinging thirst. The moment his lashes depart from each other and his body swings into his morning routine is when he realizes it. There’s a dull throbbing at the base of his neck, constantly itching and unsettling his nerves. That’s strange as it is, actually.

Ever since Toomes and his whole fiasco, Peter had been working on controlling his sixth sense and putting it to his advantage in fights. Mr. Stark had helped with this, giving him pointers during training exercises and at one point handing him a blindfold and headphones to help isolate the ability. All consensual, of course, but he did get a few bruises from the tennis balls launched at him from varying angles. It payed off, however; soon he knew how to legitimately use it to his benefit, rather than having it push him to the point where he would act out of impulsive defense. They’d deemed it the Spider Sense.

Now, though, was the first time Peter had felt it from the get-go. Unless there was something right outside his door waiting to snatch him—and Peter could say confidently he was ninety percent sure there wasn’t—then there was no reason for it to be going off right now. Still, he took precautions with opening his bedroom door, only to find May at the other end of the corridor most likely on her own way to wake him up.

“Oh, good morning!” she said quite chipperly, pausing her movements and leaning against the wall. “You’re cutting it a little close this morning, y’know. For a second there I thought you might’ve been dead.”

Peter eyed her cautiously up and down, then rolled his eyes out of sheer self-annoyance. There was not a single reason May would be causing his senses to go off. Maybe there was something hormonally wrong with him? It made him want to laugh, but he couldn’t help but think it a realistic possibility.

Peter realized a little too late he didn’t give May a proper response. “Are you okay?” she asked, concern making its way onto the beginnings of her features.

“Oh—yeah sorry May, I’m just a little tired,” he lied smoothly, shaking himself out of his thoughts. “Was up late studying for that one Spanish test today, if you know what I mean…” he trailed off as he noticed that May’s expression did not in fact become more relieved like he expected, but instead seemed to grow even more worried. “What?” he asked.

“Uh, no, I actually I don’t know what you mean, Peter,” she replied, and the end of her sentence turned into a higher pitch that almost made it sound like a question. “Are you sure you’re okay? Come here.” She motioned for him to step closer.

Peter, still wildly confused, complied. Once within arm’s reach, she tugged him even nearer to herself and put a hand to his forehead. Peter recoiled instinctively. “May—what are you _doing?_ ”

“You don’t seem to have a fever,” she mumbled to herself. Then: “How late were you up last night?”

Peter raised an eyebrow. Most of the time his aunt knew when he went to bed, which never ventured further than six hours before he had to get up the following day. He kept that promise not even for her, but mostly to himself, because he couldn’t afford to be half-asleep when patrolling and protecting people of the city. He’d learned that one the hard way.

“Like one, why?” Jesus, at this point Peter wouldn’t be shocked if May _was_ the one setting off his spider sense.

“Peter, it’s Sunday. You don’t have school today. Actually, in fact, you’re supposed to be spending the day with Tony. He said he’d be here to pick you up at noon and, well, it’s kind of half-past eleven. Even you don’t forget things like this,” she explained slowly, and it all came back to him with a punch.

Right! Mr. Stark was supposed to take him to that new science museum that just opened in downtown, get them some dinner at some fancy restaurant, and then help him work on his new suit throughout the evening. Suddenly he felt like such an idiot. Of course May wasn’t setting off his—wait.

Peter reflexively moved his hand to rub his neck, and sure enough, there was nothing there anymore. He knows this still has nothing to do with May, but he’s insanely quizzical as to why it’s been so on and off today. Typically, his spider sense warns of clear and present danger, something he can exactly pinpoint. This time there’s…nothing.

He looks back to May, half lost on where the conversation went to. “Oh, yeah, right. Sorry May, it slipped my mind,” he supplied weakly in response.

“It—it slipped your mind,” she echoed. “Wow. Okay, whatever. But you should really get ready to leave.” She perused his disheveled form. “You look like you just crawled out of a dumpster.”

“May!”

“What?”

Peter inhaled, then let it go. “Whatever. Don’t you have to get to work? I’ll text Mr. Stark and let him know I’ll be about fifteen minutes behind.”

May smiled, knowing she’d won, but then asked gently, “You sure you’re okay? You really aren’t acting like yourself this morning.”

Peter sighed, then looked determinedly into her eyes. “May, I swear. I’m fine. I’ll be okay. Just go to work. I’ll see you tomorrow, alright?”

May paused, looking like she wanted to say something, but then simply nodded. “Love you. And take your suit!” she added as she began walking away.

“Not happening and you know it!” Peter called back, beginning to turn back to his own room. The suit was too much of a hassle to carry around—it had to be contained in a backpack, and to get into the museum it would either be confiscated or searched through, or probably both, which Peter couldn’t have. Ever since May had found out about his night-time vigilantism, she’d had this firm idea that he should take the suit everywhere he go should he need it, so that he was safe. They’d compromised the night prior and he’d sworn he would take just his webshooters, which May agreed to reluctantly.

Today was going (rather, was supposed) to be a good day, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something more sinister was at cause for his random sensory activation than just his aunt. Maybe he’d bring it up to Mr. Stark. On further debate, he also thought maybe he wouldn’t. The man would probably shrug it off as a fluke, and perhaps that was all it was. But even Peter himself didn’t believe that.

He listened until the apartment door slammed shut, then started into motion.

__________

Fifteen minutes past the designated pick-up time, like he’d promised, Peter walked out the front of the apartment complex and caught sight of the sleek Chevrolet that could only belong to Mr. Stark. To be honest, it was one of his more non-descript rides, and infinitely better than the Ferrari he picked Peter up in a few weekends ago.

The New York air had a frigid chill to it, and he pulled his jacket tighter about his shoulders. Thermoregulation wasn’t one of his strong his strong suits, which undoubtedly came from the spider bite, meaning that he had to take extra precautions when it got to the more subzero temperatures. For now, though, it hung in the forties, which was manageable by his standards.

His feet skimmed over the blacktop’s pavement as he made his way to the vehicle, and as he opened its doors, a rush of warm air met his face; he smiled at the music he heard playing, subconsciously recognizing it as one of Jack Johnson’s tunes, and slid himself into the passenger seat. Mr. Stark watched as he did this with interest. Peter shut the door, shrugged off his coat, folding it and placing it in the backseat, then latched his seatbelt.

He hesitated as that dreadful feeling came clawing back at him. It was back, his spider sense. He narrowed his eyes and twisted his waist, looking out the back window, but it was to no avail. There was nothing of suspicion to note, and Peter gazed back out the windshield with frustration. He wished he knew what this meant.

“Well good morning to you too,” Mr. Stark said bemusedly. Peter spared him a second’s glance, then relaxed in his seat. “What’s wrong, kid? You okay?”

Only an hour into the day and he’d been asked that more often than he was in an entire week. No, he was not fine. Did he want to admit that? Not really. Should he? Probably. He sighed.

Finally, he turned to face Mr. Stark and said uncertainly, “Something feels wrong.”

Mr. Stark raised an eyebrow. “Define wrong, because that could mean so many different things in context with you.”

Peter didn’t know what to make of that but decided not to worry about it. Instead he answered selectively, hoping not to arouse too much worry on a day that was going (was supposed) to be a good one. “I don’t know exactly. My spider sense has been like a switch so far today. It keeps coming and going, but I don’t know why.”

Mr. Stark seemed to sober. “Has this ever happened before?”

“No.”

“Do you think there’s a possibility it’s a fluke?”

Peter blinked. He’d seen that one coming from a mile away. “When has my spider sense ever been a fluke?” he questioned rhetorically, and it seemed to get the point across to Mr. Stark, who cocked his head and nodded.

“Fair point,” he said. “Well, what do you think could be causing it to go off?”

Peter closed his eyes and restrained himself. “I don’t know why, that’s the reason I’m bringing it up to you, Mr. Stark.” Even to his own ears that sentence came out with a touch of irritability, and he’s sure Mr. Stark picked up on it too. What a great way to start off the day.

“Hey kid, I’m just trying to brainstorm here. I don’t know your senses better than you, so there’s not really much I can do,” Mr. Stark said calmly.

Peter brought a hand to his neck again. “I know, I’m sorry, Mr. Stark. It’s just this is really annoying the crap out of me.”

“Should we reschedule today?”

Peter looked up sharply. “Huh? What do you mean?”

Mr. Stark chuckled. “Relax. I didn’t say cancel, just…maybe we should take a rain check?” he restated.

“No no,” Peter scrambled, “it’s fine! Seriously. I’ve got my webshooters in case something happens, which nothing _will_ happen. We don’t need to do that. See?” He rolled up his long-sleeved shirt to show the two metallic cuffs surrounding his wrist. “It’s not an issue.”

He knew he was being a hypocrite because of his previous words, but Mr. Stark had to understand. He’d been looking forward to this day for weeks (they’d planned it last February—it was April), and he was not just going to let it slip through his fingers because of some stupid flaring of his abilities. He’s had sensory overload before, so maybe that’s just what this was. His patrolling could’ve taken a toll on him, even though there’d not been too much crime in the streets recently, and it was just catching up to him. No—rescheduling was not an option.

Mr. Stark studied him. Peter silently pleaded.

“Fine,” the older man conceded, “but if anything—and I mean _anything_ —begins to feel off about all of this, you let me know.”

Peter nodded enthusiastically. “Of course.”

Mr. Stark dragged a hand over his face. “God, one day you’re going to be the death of me, kid.”

The trip to the museum went as untroubled as one could hope. Only one person took notice of Mr. Stark, which was a blessing in itself, but then again it wasn’t really that crowded. When Peter was asked about, the classic intern guise was utilized and taken without a second thought.

The museum itself was awesome. All of the different technologies and diagrams amused him, some of them impressive, some of them just for show. At one point they came across an interactive augmented reality part of the tour, which sparked thousands of new ideas for Peter. As they walked through the winding path of the virtual forest, Peter stuck a hand out and watched, impressed, as his limb went straight through a tree. Everything wasn’t truly there. It was merely that—a type of faux world, where things could seem real, even though they weren’t.

Mr. Stark of course did not seem nearly as enthused as he himself was, but Peter wondered if it was possible he was observing the other scientists’ work and appreciating it, or condemning it with thoughts that he could do better. Mr. Stark was like that a lot. Not that it was necessarily a bad trait, but maybe more so a character flaw. Mr. Stark could do so many amazing things, but Peter oftentimes had to remind him that he couldn’t do everything, and maybe he should lift some of the theoretical weight off his shoulders. That was usually taken with a laugh and a shrug of the shoulders, and most times the conversation ended there, on a much more somber tone than it had begun with. Peter learned fast not to talk about such things with him.

“Do you think this could be replicated in a training environment?” Peter queried.

Mr. Stark, too, ran his hand through one of the fake trees. “How so?”

“I’m not sure,” Peter continued. “Maybe some of this technology could be used to replicate real-world scenarios in training grounds, y’know? Like maybe movements and strategies. I can’t see how it could be used for hand-to-hand, but it could be awesome to practice things like agility and reflex. Sometimes I think I get a little slow in that department after I don’t go out patrolling for a few nights, or if I’m sick or something. We’d have to get something to help catalyze and make it move interactively though, because stoic figures wouldn’t help with that. Obviously. Could something such as—”

He stopped abruptly as he realized he was rambling and they had already left the augmented reality room more than a few seconds ago. Embarrassed, he apologized.

Mr. Stark turned to face him with a smile on his face. “Don’t apologize,” he said, “it’s actually a very cool idea. Maybe we’ll look into it sometime.”

Peter brightened. He didn’t say _I,_ he said _we._ “Y-Yeah!” he exclaimed. “I’d love to help with that. Whenever you’re free, of course,” he added.

Mr. Stark snorted. “Kid, I can be free whenever I want to be free. I don’t give two shits about all those corporate meetings. Honestly, they’re more for show than anything. Pepper wants me to keep up a good persona so that the media isn’t constantly breathing down my neck. Just give me a time and we’ll sort it out.”

Peter grinned, and they continued to make their way through the gallery while talking about various different things. Home life, superhero life—whichever subject came up, really. It was nice to have somebody to talk to about things like that. May was awesome, but the thing that really made Mr. Stark stand out to him was that he communicated back. It wasn’t just Peter sharing what was on his mind, it was also Ironman himself, and that sometimes made Peter think he wasn’t as alone as he thought. Besides, there wasn’t really anybody else he could talk to about something like stopping bad guys doing bad things through inhuman powers.

Mr. Stark understood.

Sometimes Peter wondered if the man would still have taken a liking to him if he didn’t become Spider-man. He knows the answer already, however, and it’s not comforting. Mr. Stark would’ve never found him, never recruited him, and things would’ve been so much different. But even if not becoming Spider-man happened to save Ben, he still doesn’t know if he’d change the past. It’s not something he really likes to think about, because he knows what he’d choose, and he knows he’d feel guilty about it. He couldn’t give up what he has now. So he denies any hypotheticals, denies thinking about what could’ve been, and instead focuses on what he has.

A mentor who actually likes and looks out for him.

On a different subject, early dinner at the diner was going a little rougher than Peter would’ve liked thus far. It was a nice place for sure with some good tasting food (Mr. Stark had said it was the best in the city, yet then again, Peter hadn’t showed Mr. Stark Mr. Delmar’s) but his spider sense had begun poking him again. It had settled for quite a while in the museum—not fully gone, but much quieter in its incessant tingling—and now it had returned fiercely, almost to the point where it felt like his neck was burning.

Mid-conversation with Mr. Stark he excused himself from the table, ignoring the concerned look on his face, and made his way to the bathroom. Thankful it was deserted, he jammed the button to turn on the faucet, cupped some water, and splashed himself in the face. Something was so wrong.

The water automatically turned off, and Peter hastily tried to turn it back on again but missed. His anger growing, he used a little more force, and ended up—shit. Nice. Just fantastic. He had bent the top of the faucet where the button was, and this time the water wasn’t shutting off. Taking a little more water and massaging it on his neck, he closed his eyes and breathed. After calming himself down slightly he looked at the faucet once more and thought about how maybe he should tell somebody who worked there about it being broken.

Another jolt of pain through his neck. He shuddered. No, that could wait. He wanted to get out of here. Like, now.

_Something isn’t right, something isn’t right, something—_

He put his hands to his temples and squeezed, willing his brain to shut up, then made his way out and back to Mr. Stark. The man looked up at his return, clearly disturbed by Peter’s sudden departure to the restroom, and opened his mouth. Peter spoke before Mr. Stark could get a single word out, though. “Mr. Stark we’ve gotta go. I don’t know why, but we’ve got to get out of here.”

The man looked at Peter carefully for a moment, then took out his wallet and left a few hundred-dollar bills on the table. “Then let’s go.”

As they made their way to the car, it only got worse. The burning from his neck traveled down his back and up to his head, and he gritted his teeth in pain to keep from crying out. Mr. Stark seemed to catch on and grabbed Peter’s shoulder, keeping him upright as they travelled the final few steps. “Just hang on, kid. I don’t know how to help. I don’t—”

“Something’s going to happen,” Peter interrupted through labored breaths. “I’ve never felt this before. Something big is going to happen.” He rolled up his sleeves and tapped his webshooters, making sure they were ready for whatever threat approached, as he collapsed into his seat. Mr. Stark went around to the driver’s side, putting the car into reverse.

“Interstate or backroad?” was the next question.

Peter thought for a moment. “Backroad. Please.” With his spider sense going haywire, he didn’t know if he would be able to handle all the cars on the interstate. Now _this_ felt like a sensory overload.

Nirvana came blasting through the radio speakers as Mr. Stark began driving away, and Peter unintentionally smashed the front of the radio trying to turn it off, just like the faucet back in the restaurant. What was his spider sense doing to him? It’s like it wanted him to fight, but Peter didn’t know what to even being fighting.

“You know, that was a new radio,” Mr. Stark commented.

Peter groaned. “Noted. I’ll make sure to pay you back when—”

He paused. Mr. Stark looked at him.

“Peter?”

A surge of adrenaline burst through him. He gripped the steering-wheel, jerking it to the left and causing the car to swerve, but it was too late. The large semi barreled into the passenger side of the car, but thankfully it hit more of the hood than the actual side like what was supposed to happen.

The car flew across the road from the impact and Peter barely had time to register the hand darting across his chest to keep him from flying forward before the vehicle toppled over onto its side, skidding across the ground. The windshield shattered and shards of glass rained onto the both of them like some sort of demented rain-shower, cutting into the skin on Peter’s face like it was paper. But he knew that was the least of his worries.

Peter counted at least one flip before they settled to a stop in some sort of ditch off the main road. The metal frame of the car gave a few more moans, then everything was quiet.

It was a few moments before Peter opened his eyes (and he hadn’t even noticed he’d closed them. When did he close them?) instantly searching out Mr. Stark. He found him to his left, head bent down on his chest with blood leaving more of his face covered than exposed. Peter drew in sharp breath, lifted one of his arms to his mentor’s neck, only to have a sharp pain fire up the limb. He dropped it back down instantly, not able to hold back a cry of pain.

Maybe a broken arm. Probably a concussion. Most definitely in a deep amount of shit.

He brought in another deep breath. Mr. Stark was just unconscious, and maybe that’s all it was. But his spider sense was still screaming at him, and something made him think that whoever hit them wasn’t going to be as helpful as he hoped they would. If his spider sense was _still_ going, then this couldn’t’ve been an accident. No way. On an empty backroad, a semi-truck hitting them was almost preposterous odds. Too much of a coincidence.

 _Think, Peter, think!_ he screamed at himself. Mr. Stark was in trouble. The whole front of the car was concaved, trapping Peter’s legs in a painful position. Smoke was rising from the hood dangerously. He had to get the both of them out of there, but Mr. Stark wasn’t awake to help him with that.

“Mr. Stark please,” Peter fruitlessly tried anyway. When there was no response, he followed both his and Mr. Stark’s seatbelts down to where they latched and clicked the button. Nothing happened. He yelled in frustration. Moving onto a different tactic, he took hold of the harness with his right hand—which he discovered was not nearly in as bad a situation as his left—and yanked. His own seatbelt broke free, and with that small victory, Peter clung onto that new hope and did the same to Mr. Stark’s.

He melted back into his seat, breathing heavily. That small feat had already taken so much out of him, and new pains in his body were arising everywhere. The worst was above his right knee. They needed help. Badly.

The smoke had begun to swell more and more from the hood, and Peter feared there would soon be a fire. Shaking his head from any fog, he grabbed the door handle and pushed. It, too, took way more effort for the teen who was able to lift an entire building off his head, but eventually it broke off its hinges, clattering to the ground.

Okay. Good! That’s good. It was a start.

He took in the rest of Mr. Stark’s predicament. He didn’t seem trapped like Peter was, and suddenly Peter knew what he had to do. Get Mr. Stark out first, and then worry about himself. If Mr. Stark would wake up, then he could get Peter help.

Steeling himself for the pain, Peter used his left arm to grab Mr. Stark’s shoulder, and his right to take hold of his waist. Using all the energy he had left in him, he did the best he could to pull the older man over his body and out the door—or lack thereof. He set him down gently on the ground, making sure he was safe and secure, and then let the pain rush over him.

His arm throbbed in timed sequences, pulsating painfully, and his head pounded from the amount of work he just did. But Mr. Stark was out of the car, and if he would just goddamn wake up already, he could call one of his suits and get them help.

Nothing.

Peter scrunched his eyes closed. _What could he do to get himself out of this?_ He didn’t know. Even if he used his webshooters, it didn’t change the fact that his arm was most likely broken and his legs were still pinned under a shit-ton of metal.

Maybe he should just keep his eyes shut. He was growing tired. Somebody would find them, surely, and if not, Mr. Stark would wake up eventually. He was free and could help Peter.

Yeah, rest sounded really good.

He refused to think about the other option.

Mr. Stark was not dead.


	2. Room of Sorrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again guys!
> 
> I'm back with another chapter. Please don't expect updates to keep coming this soon, as it's kind of out of character for me, but I'll do my best to pump them out as quick as possible!
> 
> No new tags for this chapter, except for maybe some crude language, but that's about it.
> 
> Enjoy!

Peter awoke to somebody calling his name. It felt like he was underwater, all the sounds muffled as though they were trying to swim their way through some sort of sludge to reach him, distant, echoing. As the seconds passed and things became a little clearer, he found that this person wasn’t just calling for him, they were _screaming_ for him.

Everything slammed into him at once. He opened his eyes and the setting sun’s light assaulted his vision, invading and shielding him from seeing the outside world, from seeing Mr. Stark who he now realized is the one yelling for him. He squinted against the brightness, felt the grass underneath his hands. He made a fist in the dirt and pulled himself to a sitting position, discovering that he was no longer in the car. Somebody had pulled him out.

A sharp pain pinched in his neck, and he dully remembered the spider sense that had never left him, that had warned him of this for the past few hours, trying to tell him this was going to happen. He was so stupid. Like, for being a kid who loved school and made the principal’s honor role every quarter, he was the dumbest person there could possibly be.

He looked up, catching sight of three men. On the left, a tall one with a buzz cut. He had a very toned body structure, muscled and wearing a mask that covered just his face. The one on the right was similar, but at least _he_ had hair. He also donned a matte leather jacket, clearly worn from years of overuse, and boots with pointed metallic tips.

Between those two, though, is what freaked Peter out. Or rather, who.

Mr. Stark dangled between them, obviously in a deep amount of pain, but putting up a good fight. He kicked and shoved, landing one fist to Boots’ face, but the man didn’t even flinch. Peter spotted a black van behind them, the semi nowhere in sight. It seemed to be the final destination of the two men, and subsequently, Mr. Stark too.

That’s when the situation fully grasped him. Gasping in pain, Peter used his good arm to push himself all the way to his feet. Then the world decided it wanted to do a backflip, causing him to stumble a few steps backward, but he refused to fall. If he fell, he didn’t think he would really be able to get back up, and besides, Mr. Stark was being taken. He had to do something. He had to—

“Wait, Tristan, I thought you put that kid under?” Boots asked.

If anything, this caused Mr. Stark to fight even more, but it seemed like the two men had no problem handling this sudden burst of energy.

_“Peter, run!”_

“I did,” the man on the left—Tristan, Peter’s mind supplied—answered. “I totally did. He should be out for hours. I gave him the full dose!”

_“Peter, what are you doing? Run!”_

Peter looked gravely at Mr. Stark. They both knew why he wasn’t running, and it wasn’t just because he seemed to have a broken leg. He wasn’t about to ditch Tony Stark, to leave him behind to some hijackers and just pretend like everything was okay. He couldn’t do that, just like Mr. Stark wouldn’t do that to Peter. He had to try and get them out of this, and if he didn’t? Well, then it sucked for the both of them.

It sounded like they’d injected him with something when he was passed out in order to keep him that way, but his metabolism burned through it like nothing. They didn’t want any witnesses, so Peter wondered where that left him and them, as he was apparently never a target.

Bringing himself away from his own thoughts, Peter took a moment and steadied himself, then pointed out, “It’s not nice to talk about someone when they’re standing right in front of you.” Huh. That sounded a lot better in his head. Especially when in his head, he wasn’t slurring his words.

_“Peter!”_

Boots and Tristan looked at each other. After a moment, Boots took charge and said, “Take the package back to the van. I’ll figure out what do to with this one.”

Tristan complied, and Mr. Stark’s eyes widened.

_“No! Don’t you touch him, you hear me? You touch him you’re dead! You’re dead!”_

Peter watched as the man dragged him away, his heart pounding. A one versus one was much easier than a two versus one, and Mr. Stark should know this. Peter was in pain. He _definitely_ thinks he has a broken leg and at least a fractured arm, so he had to make his odds as favorable as possible. If that meant making it emotionally harder on himself, then so be it, because he knew fighting this way was going to be one of the toughest things he’s ever had to do. Even over lifting that rubble when that warehouse collapsed on him. This was both his and Mr. Stark’s lives on the line.

“Why don’t you just sit back down, kid, and let us take care of you? We’ll make sure you get to a hospital, and you probably won’t even remember half of this,” Boots tried.

Peter tried to stifle a laugh and failed. He didn’t know which ploy this was. To either get him killed, get him kidnapped, or get him drugged into oblivion, he wasn’t sure. But it was still funny. “Kidnapping in the daytime. Kind of an amateur move, not going to lie. Have you even thought this through?” Peter asked sincerely.

Boots frowned, obviously not expecting that. “Who do you think you are?”

Peter shrugged. “Do the math yourself.”

He then pulled up his sleeves, revealing his webshooters, and fired two shots at the man. They latched onto Boots’ feet and Peter yanked, causing the startled man to fall onto his back and come sliding forward from Peter’s strength. The moment Boots was within reach Peter jumped, biting back a scream of pain as he used his right leg, the one very much broken, to do so. As he gained height, he used his left to land a kick to Boots’ face, putting all of his muscle into it, twisted, and landed on one knee behind him.

That move worked a lot better than Peter had hoped it would, actually, as he took in the sight of Boots on the ground pawing at his nose. He had no remorse for the man.

Climbing his way back to his feet, Peter fired multiple webs to pin Boots to the ground. He looked furious.

“You’re Sp—”

“In the flesh,” Peter said, giving Boots a halfhearted smile. “Now you don’t mind waiting there while I go take care of your friend, do you?”

Boots did not say a word.

Peter nodded to himself. “Okay. Good. Glad you’re fine with it.”

Digging into one of the pockets of his jeans, Peter grabbed the extra cartridges of web fluid he had stored there. He knew he still had plenty in his current ones, but just to play it safe he released and replaced them. Running out of web fluid was not something that he wanted to do in a situation as tedious as this one.

Adrenaline now pumping through his veins, Peter looked up and studied the van. The back doors were closed, and Peter knew without a doubt that Tristan was in there guarding Mr. Stark, waiting for Boots to return and drive them off to only God knows where. He allowed himself to wonder for a brief second if Boots was planning on killing him or leaving him, but he barely has to debate that. They couldn’t chance witnesses, and Peter was a witness. Simple as that.

He began the slow process of making his way to the vehicle. How should he approach this? He had no margin for error, because if he did, then who knows if he’d ever see the light of day again? These were dangerous people to be messing with, and while Peter had yet to see one of them armed, he was still injured and could be overpowered easily. Tristan seemed to be the more hardened of the two, just from basic observations of poise and personality, which didn’t excite Peter at all.

At first, he toyed with the idea of just getting in the driver’s seat and bringing them to the police station. Which would’ve worked out perfectly if he knew how to, y’know, drive. So yeah, there was a small snag in that plan. But that didn’t mean there weren’t other options.

Before he knew it, Peter was standing at the back of the van, obsidian colored doors keeping him separated from the one thing he needed right now: Mr. Stark. He took a deep breath, checked his webshooters to ensure they were functional, and grabbed onto the door handle.

He could do this. _He could do this._ He was Spider-Man.

Deep breath.

He yanked open the doors.

______

Tony’s day had started off well. Really, it had. He was having a good time with the kid, watching his brain practically explode at all the new information he was taking in at the museum—even if some of it Tony didn’t agree with. But it seemed like if Peter was having a good time, then it was automatically transferred to Tony, because Tony just couldn’t seem to resist the kid’s goddamn puppy eyes. Peter had so much youthful spirit, something Tony rarely had in his childhood, and it made his heart bleed. But in his defense, who _could_ resist Peter?

If somebody had told him his day would end with a car crash and being dragged away from aforementioned kid, though, he would’ve laughed in that somebody’s face. He was Ironman, and he wasn’t going to let some random people bring him to some random place like they did in Afghanistan. Nope. Absolutely not.

The car crash kind of skewered that right in the heart, however. He must’ve had a pretty good knock to his head, because the entire ground was spinning clockwise and the people dragging him away were morphing into disfigured shapes, which he was pretty sure was not what was supposed to be happening.

_“Wait, Tristan, I thought you’d put that kid under?”_

Peter! Tony thrashed in the grips holding him, trying every dirty trick in the book—groin shots, scratching of the eyes, pulling of the ears—but they all failed. These people knew what they were doing, and Tony knew he wasn’t just going to get out of this one on his own grit.

When he heard the kid speak, all the fight rushed out of him. Peter was alive. When the two men had first picked Tony up, they’d made him watch as they plunged the needle into the boy’s exposed, bloody neck. Peter had looked dead. His arm had been twisted into an aberrant angle; his face was covered in absolutely horrifying gashes; and his leg—god, his leg. It was like his femur had just gone straight through—

He gagged on that thought.

But hearing Peter speak, give a sarcastic remark, gave him hope. Peter could take these two guys any day of the week. Injured, though? That was a different story.

_“Take the package to the van. I’ll figure out what to do with this one.”_

Now that made him struggle. What would the man figure out to do with Peter? None of the options that Tony could think of were good, and he watched as Peter didn’t move a muscle to keep him from being dragged away. He of course knew why, but it didn’t hurt any less.

Once the man, Tristan, had lugged Tony into the van, he’d wasted no time to put handcuffs on. He tried to make it as difficult as possible for them to be closed together, but there was really no point. In his disoriented state he was handled with ease. There was a ring on the center of the floor and Tony had no choice but to watch as Tristan wound a chain through it, hooking it back to his cuffs. They really weren’t taking any chances, then.

Once Tristan seemed satisfied with the chains, he opened a hatch that seemed to lead to the driver’s cabin. Tony, in one last desperate attempt to stall for Peter, hissed, “You’re not going to get away with this. You’ve got no idea who you’re messing with.”

The door shut.

Tony closed his eyes in anguish. This sucked. Like, truly, monumentally sucked, big time. All he could do was sit in the silence and wait for the outcome of what was to come. There was nothing around to pick the handcuff’s lock with—not that he knew how to do that, anyway—and the chains were secured without fault. But Tony took every second the van stayed in park as a win, because that meant they hadn’t bested Peter yet. Peter, who was deeply injured, and still trying to fight for the both of them. Peter, a kid who shouldn’t even be in this mess in the first place.

What on Earth was Tony thinking, making more relationships? He was one of the most powerful people on the planet, and it made sense the bad guys would find every way they could to break him. And these guys definitely found one, but Tony didn’t think they knew the gold mine they had struck yet.

He counted 236 seconds before one of the van’s back doors opened. In his momentary blindness due to the outside sunlight, Tony took this moment to pray that it was Peter, and not the other dude meant to take care of the kid.

As the colors came into focus, Tony breathed a sigh of relief.

“Mr. Stark!”

“Hey kid, what took you so long?” he asked caustically.

Peter smiled. “I’m sorry, I would’ve had you out sooner, but my leg—”

“Don’t apologize, Pete, you did fine. Did you get them both?” The kid frowned at this, and Tony’s heart dropped. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know where the other one went,” he admitted. “I figured he would’ve been back here with you.”

Tony bit his lip. “Nope, kiddo, he went back around to the front. Just get me out of these cuffs and then—PETER!”

Peter turned, but it was far too late. Tristan grabbed him around the shoulders and put a hand behind his head, then slammed it down onto the edge of the van’s floor. Tony was up in an instant, fear overtaking his every feature, but the chains did their job of holding him down. He couldn’t do anything. His kid was being beaten right in front of him, no more than 2 feet away, and he couldn’t do a single thing.

As Peter began to try and lift his head back up, which was way bloodier than it was before, Tristan took the opening to drive another needle into his neck. The kid moaned in pain as the drugs were introduced to his system, and when Tristan took the syringe out, another one filled its place.

Tony gawked. They were giving him double the dosage, even when he’d _already_ had one? They were going to kill him, and Tony voiced his opinions as such.

“Relax, Stark, he’ll be fine,” Tristan said, removing the second needle and placing it in his pocket. “Besides, when the boss finds out who we’ve stumbled upon, he’s going to be ecstatic that the kid isn’t dead.”

Tristan lifted the rest of Peter into the van, not bothering to cuff him like he did Tony. He probably knew that they wouldn’t do much good in restraining him, seeming as Peter was already out like a light.

“It isn’t everyday you capture both Ironman and Spider-Man in one go.”

Tony’s blood ran cold. They knew who Peter was. Granted, Peter had probably used his webshooters to help take down the other henchman which would’ve given him away instantly, but it still raised the stakes. He couldn’t plead that the kid was innocent anymore, because he was a superhero too. A teenaged superhero, at that, who Tony clearly cared about. They had leverage.

“Now I’m going to go get Rick and you’re going to sit right here and not touch anything,” Tristan said.

“Who do you think you are, my father?” Tony spat.

Tristan smirked. “No. But if you don’t obey, I will kill—what was his name again? Peter? Right here on the spot. I will take my gun—” the man removed a pistol from a hidden holster under his shirt, and placed it to Peter’s head, “—and shoot Peter right here, right now, leaving you to sit and rot in his blood.”

Tony’s breath caught in his throat, and he couldn’t take his eyes off the gun that looked so wrong against Peter’s unconscious head. It wasn’t right. None of this was right, and none of this should be happening, but it was, and Tony was going to be forced to deal with it because he had no other choice.

“Do I make myself clear?”

Tony swallowed.

“Crystal.”

_______

Rick sat in the back with them. Tristan drove. Peter lay motionless on the floor. Tony kept his head in his hands so that he couldn’t see any of this happening. What a shitshow.

At one point he’d tried to move to Peter to help get him in a more comfortable position which wouldn’t hurt his leg as much—currently he was face-down, hair haphazardly strewn across his face, arms sprawled and legs bent—but Rick punched him in the face. Apparently after being webbed down by the kid, Rick was anything but happy.

“Let the boy suffer,” he’d snarled. “The boss will decide what happens to him.”

“You sure do speak highly of this boss dude. You kiss his ass every time he gets up from taking a shit?”

Rick raised an eyebrow, then got up from his seat and leaned down to Peter. Tony mentally kicked himself for being so stupid. There was a time and place for quips, and with Peter unconscious next to him, it was most definitely not one of those times.

“You want to rethink saying that?” Rick asked, placing one of his boots on Peter’s twisted arm.

Tony said nothing.

“That’s what I thought.”

The rest of the car-ride continued in silence. Tony tried to keep track of the amount of turns and number of minutes they took going each way, but he gave up after six hours of travel time. They were long out of New York and most definitely in a different state by now. His best guess was New Hampshire, but it was a shot in the dark. For all he knew they were in Connecticut or New Jersey.

Eventually, after what seemed like at least another four hours, he felt the van roll to a stop. He hadn’t slept at all, making sure the goon sitting next to him didn’t lay a hand on Peter, who still hadn’t woken up yet. Hadn’t even twitched. With the amount of drugs they gave him, Tony wasn’t surprised; depending on what the substance was, it was probably enough to overdose an elephant. And Peter was not even close to an elephant.

The back of the van doors opened, and Tristan looked them up and down. He stepped inside, used a key he took out of his pockets to unlock Tony’s handcuffs, and jerked his head toward Peter.

“Carry him,” Tristan growled, stepping back outside, “or we’ll drag him.”

Tony rubbed the inside of his wrists, getting the blood flowing back through his veins, then stood up and wrapped his arms around Peter, seeing no other choice. What was the best way to hold him? Tony didn’t know. He didn’t want to irritate the leg or arm any more than they were already, but it was going to be nearly impossible to avoid every injury.

_“Hurry up!”_ a voice barked from afar. Tony weighed his chances of making a run for it but squashed the idea instantly. He wouldn’t make it far with Peter in his hands, and if he left Peter, they might just kill him outright. Which was not an option. Tony has done so much shit in his life, but there would be no coming back from letting Peter die. He would become a whole new person, a person nobody would like, and things would be no better than if he were to stay captive to these people. In fact, they’d probably be worse.

Making a decision, he flipped Peter over, snaked an arm underneath his legs, and lifted him. A fireman’s carry would’ve been too rough, so bridal style it was. To his surprise, the kid actually wasn’t as heavy as Tony thought he was going to be. He kept Peter’s head—still covered in red—resting against his chest and made his way out of the vehicle. From there, Rick wrapped a blindfold around his head, and Tony didn’t resist. He didn’t want to drop the kid in his arms.

_“And if you died, I’d feel like that’s on me.”_

No way.

So he let the guards manhandle him into the building, but throughout the journey, he never once loosened his grip on Peter. He could feel the boy’s chest moving against his, and each exhale of breath on his neck was an encouraging sign that Peter was still alive. Peter wasn’t going to die in his mentor’s hands. He was going to get out of this situation without sustaining anymore harm, he was going to get a girlfriend, go to college, and live his life. Tony was going to make sure of that, even if it cost him his own life, because Peter deserved everything, and Tony deserved nothing. Tony was the reason they were in this situation in the first place. He was responsible for everything that happened.

Eventually the guards stopped and lifted the blindfold. They were in the middle of a square cell, probably about twenty by twenty feet, with iron bars standing in lieu of walls. At one wall was a door, also barred, and in that door was a small slit. Tony guessed that’s where their food and water supply would come from. As for outside of the cell, they were in another square room. On one wall was a mirror, which Tony had zero doubts was a two-way mirror, and at the opposite one there was a door. With a lock. A keypad that needed a code, in fact. In the back of his mind he wondered where he’d do his business at, but the bucket in the corner answered that question.

Tony turned to face Rick and Tristan. “I’m pretty sure we payed for the double-bedded suite, not this piece of—”

The punch sent him recoiling and struggling to stay on his feet. _He could not drop Peter, he could not drop Peter, he could not drop Peter._

“The boss will be here soon to discuss a few things with you, Stark. You better find a way to wake up the kid, or else he will do it for you,” were Tristan’s departing words. The men exited the cell in tandem, and Tony fought to control his breathing. What the hell was that supposed to mean?

Feeling safer that there was distance and a cell between him and the two men, he yelled after them, “You bunch of pussies! Standing by and letting a kid get hurt! No, wait, hurting a kid _yourself_! Cowards! That’s what you are, _cowards!_ ”

They opened the keypad, ignoring the insults and being careful to block the view of the code, then left.

It took a few moments before Tony could make himself move. He began with gingerly setting Peter down on the concrete floor, careful to keep his leg in the bent position it’d been in for the past few hours. Then, he sat down himself. Peter could easily get them out of here. The webshooters were still on his wrists; why this was, Tony didn’t know, but his best guess was confidence. Their kidnappers felt they were in control, but the thing was these iron bars would bend like Play-Doh under Peter’s fingers and the door could be ripped off without effort…if the kid wasn’t injured. Tony had to wake him up. They weren’t going to let the kid who they knew was Spider-Man be unrestrained for long.

Tony knew just how to do it, but it wasn’t going to be easy for either of them. The femur had to be reset before Peter’s healing ability began mending it the wrong way, which would be absolutely horrible. The femur was the strongest bone in the body, and Tony didn’t know if he would be able to re-break it without doing some serious damage. So he opted to get it out of the way.

He just hoped the drugs had worn off some so that Peter could feel the pain and wake up.

Tony paused. God, that was such a terrible thing to even think. How could he even think something like that? He was about to cause this kid insurmountable torture, drugged or not, and _that_ was what he was thinking? He was so screwed up.

Refocusing, Tony placed one hand on Peter’s chest, one on his broken leg. It was an open fracture and blood bled through his jeans, making Tony want to run to the bucket from nausea, but he had no choice. It had to be done.

Closing his eyes, he began to push Peter’s leg back down into the proper position, ensuring it straightened out. He had been mentally preparing himself for the screams, but that didn’t mean they didn’t drive a knife into his heart any less painfully. After a few agonizing seconds of the leg being back to its normal pose, Tony opened his eyes, meeting Peter’s own.

“Oh,” Peter said breathlessly. “’s you.”

“Yeah bud, hey. Sorry about that. I had to set your leg right, otherwise you would’ve been in a whole different world of trouble.”

Peter closed his eyes again, but Tony snapped his fingers. ( _“You better find a way to wake the kid, or he’ll do it for you.”_ ) 

“Naptime’s over, Pete, sorry. Gotta stay awake.”

Peter nodded. “’s okay. Don’t be sorry. Just…don’t let me fall back asleep again, ‘kay?”

“I won’t,” Tony promised. Now to give the kid more bad news. “I don’t really think it’s your arm anymore, Pete, that’s broken. I think you dislocated your shoulder.”

Peter widened his eyes. “Oh. Nice. ‘Kay, well do what you’ve got to do. It wouldn’t be the first time my shoulder’s been reset.”

Tony felt tears in his eyes. Here was his kid, broken and in pain, Tony asking even more of him, and Peter was just going to let him do whatever was necessary. That took true strength, and Tony could not help but feel prideful.

“You want me to count down, spider boy?”

Peter rolled his eyes. “It’s Spider- _Man_. And yes please.”

“God, stop it with the manners already. It’s okay to be impolite. Especially to these guys,” Tony said. He then took his hands and placed them on Peter’s shoulder. “You ready?”

“It’s not ‘kay to be impolite to you, though,” Peter argued feebly. “And yeah, I guess.”

Tony sighed. “Well here we go. Three, two—”

He jerked Peter’s shoulder abruptly and heard a _snap_. The kid yelped in pain at the unexpected violence, but it was over quickly, and Tony scooted a pace back. Peter instantly sat up, looking pissed.

“You call that a countdown?”

“In technical terms it _was…_ ”

“You little—that was, that was just—” Tony waited patiently. “That was just plain rude!” Peter finished lamely. “You can’t just do that!”

“I think I just did,” Tony countered. “Trust me, it helped by miles. You didn’t tense, and it was gone in a second.”

“It’s not just magically gone,” Peter mumbled, and Tony shrunk a bit.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, the only sound being Peter’s heavy breathing from the pain. Tony didn’t know what to do. They didn’t really _have_ anything to do except wait. Tony had just put Peter through so much pain, he didn’t even know how to begin bringing up that he needed Peter to also help them escape. It was just too much to ask of a kid. Way too much.

Eventually, Peter spoke. “I can take care of myself, you know. I can see it in your eyes. You want to ask me to do something, but you won’t because you don’t think I can handle it.”

“It’s not that I don’t think you can handle it, it’s that it’s something I should never have to ask of you,” Tony corrected.

“You want me to bend the bars and get out of here, don’t you?” Peter said quietly. “I’m not leaving you, just like I wouldn’t leave you back on that road.”

“You might not have a choice,” Tony stated.

Peter shrugged. “I always have a choice.”

“They’re going to restrain you.”

“Then let them restrain me.”

“Do you even know what these guys are probably going to do?” Tony questioned angrily, his tone rising.

Peter laughed, but it was humorless, nearly maniacal. This version of Peter scared Tony, and not many things could do that to him. “Like it’s not obvious? Torture us. Use me to get to you. Use you to get to me. And it’s going to work. I played my card and I got beat, Mr. Stark. Now we’ve gotta live with the consequences.”

“At least try!” Tony exclaimed. “Break us out of here and I’ll follow right behind you.”

“Like that concussion of yours will let you keep up.”

“You can carry me out if you have to.”

“Oh yeah, I’m sure my broken leg would just love that!” Peter said, evidently exasperated.

Tony clenched his fists. He was furious at how easily Peter was deflecting his arguments, how simple it was for him to accept their fate. He obviously didn’t understand that he was condemning them both by choosing this. Leaving them to the mercy of their captors.

“Then what’s your plan, Mr. Big Shot? Lay down and roll over? Let yourself die, let _me_ die?”

This evoked a reaction out of Peter, but it wasn’t one Tony was expecting. It was a fiery glare that froze him to the bone, made everything in the world stop.

“No,” Peter said dangerously. “Somebody has to know you’re missing by now. May has to know _I’m_ missing. They’ll come. I just need to survive until you can escape. I just need to keep these guys’ attention on me until they can get you out. That’s all.”

Tony blinked. Then he opened his mouth, ready to scream every curse word in the book that would make even a sailor blush, _smack_ some sense into this kid if he had to, but the door behind him opened, and all those thoughts just died inside him, like a tree struck by lightning.

Peter had made the choice for them both, without even giving a Tony a chance to decline. And now they’d have to stand by it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think? Do you think Peter made the right decision, or do you think he should've done something differently? 
> 
> Please let me know how the characterization and pacing is, and what either worked for you or didn't! Also, if you notice any errors feel free to bring it to my attention.
> 
> This chapter would've been out so much sooner, but my kitten kept falling asleep on my face and I didn't want to move LOL!
> 
> Till next time, where things really start to go down!


	3. The Decision of Misery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the lack of updating. Life got in the way. The whole Corona thing has been a mess, I had to put my dog down, and online school sucks, but I promise next update won't take nearly as long. Thanks to everybody who commented on chapter 2! It really made my day, especially when I saw some authors I myself look up to!
> 
> Also sorry about the mess of this chapter?? Like AO3 is being a bitch. I'm having trouble paragraph spacing for some reason.
> 
> Enjoy!

When Peter had imagined the person who was running this operation in his head, he had been expecting something much, much different. Maybe the guy had a metal prosthetic, like the Winter Soldier; a mechanical suit, like the Vulture; or even just a simple eyepatch, like Nick Fury. What he certainly wasn’t expecting was for the guy to look so…normal.

Peter fought crime on a daily basis. A lot of times it was something simple, such as property theft or shoplifting. Those were the easier days. But this was New York, and some of the things he saw weren’t just a walk in the park like people thought; those people didn’t understand how truly psychotic other people could be.

Peter could remember nearly every crime he’d ever stopped. None of them really just disappeared from his memory; each one left a footprint. But not just a footprint—one that didn’t disappear with a little bit of snow or rain or sedimentation of rock. No, it was cemented into his mind like an unbreakable fossil, always there, always lingering.

He remembered stopping the raping on the corner of 64th and 102nd; the shooting of the mall on the gorgeous Saturday of January 27th, 2018; the suicide of the young woman who wanted to end it all by leaping out of a window from one of the tallest towers in the city. It wasn’t just friendly mishappens and churros he got out of the job—it came with nightmares and anxiety and sleepless nights. And he would rave for hours to Happy about the churro days, but he wouldn’t dare pick up his phone on the others. Not that Happy seemed to care—before the airplane incident, he seemed to think it was a blessing when Peter didn’t message him.

He’d had to get a little more creative in hiding things since Mr. Stark had started paying more attention to him and his life.

Either way, the point Peter was trying to make was that all of those people, the ones instigating the most horrific of crimes, looked the most normal. They were the people who hid in plain sight, who were able to walk through town without being suspected of the slightest of things, who looked like they were just plain everyday citizens with no dark secrets to hide. And yet they’d do unforgiveable things, and that’s what gave Peter the most whiplash out of everything.

The man who had just walked through that door, his cronies Tristan and Boots (he still didn’t know the guy’s name) joined at his hips, was one of those people. That gave Peter an even worse feeling than the cell they were in, or the special handcuffs in the man’s hands.

His hair was a deep brown with only a few sprinkles of grey—early forties, probably—and he wore a baggy pair of jeans with a plain grey tee. Peter would have at least expected a suit, because that’s what most methodical villains tended to wear, but this guy seemed like he was dressed to go someplace casual like a park. Was this a show of weakness, laziness, and underestimation, or was it a display of power? That he needn’t wear something so formal to an event that he had complete and utter control over? Something told Peter it was the latter, which suddenly made him a lot more nervous.

Peter, at this point, was honestly just so done. He, nor Mr. Stark, could not catch a break. First it was the Avengers’ Civil War, and then the Vulture, and now this. If he was being honest, it was wearing on him. He wanted to get out of this place, despite what Mr. Stark thought, but he just didn’t know where to begin. He understood Mr. Stark’s frustration, of course, but it’s not like he could just fight his way out of this one. They were both injured—though Peter was happy to find out the only problem for Mr. Stark was that he most likely had a concussion from a large gash on his head—and they had no idea where they were, where to go, or how many armed guards were outside waiting.

He would bend the bars, tear open the door, and they’d get caught. And then they’d be in serious trouble when the people holding them captive found out. That’s just how it would go, period. Why make things harder on themselves?

Peter wondered if maybe the first mistake he made during all of this was using his web shooters. While the chances certainly were quite lower, he still could’ve possibly pulled something off without letting Boots and Tristan know he was Spider-Man, and then they wouldn’t feel the need to govern his movements with what was, by the looks of it, vibranium, with the manacles the leading man was carrying in his hands. But he hadn’t really thought that through too much in the heat of the moment because they were dragging away Mr. Stark and he’d had to do something to save him.

Peter stopped his train of thought there. It didn’t matter what choices he’d made in the past, he had to focus on what was happening right here, right now. His logic behind what he’d said to Mr. Stark was that he had a healing ability. No offense to Mr. Stark or any of the things he’d been through, Peter could (at least physically—emotionally was a different story) handle a lot more. Sure, the pain was still the same, but he wouldn’t die as quick. His abilities would keep him alive long enough, hopefully, to endure most of the trauma so that when help came—and help would come; Peter didn’t let himself think that it wouldn’t—they could extract Mr. Stark safely.

If Peter was still in good condition, then that was a bonus. If not, well, pity, but he’d recover eventually. And if he were dead?

No.

He wouldn’t.

He couldn’t.

Thinking like that was going to bring him down a dark path. Peter didn’t want to die. He really, truly didn’t. Dying was abso-fucking-lutely the last thing on his bucket-list. They wouldn’t kill him. He was too valuable as Spider-Man.

He hoped.

“Stark,” the man who had just entered the room said, bringing Peter away from his whirlwind of thoughts. “It’s a pleasure to finally see you face-to-face.”

Peter watched from the corner of his eye as Mr. Stark lifted his gaze to meet the nameless man’s. There was an almost glaze-like cover to his eyes, somewhat focused but rather like they were dealing with conflicted interests. Peter wondered, not for the first time, what was going through his mind. Was he thinking about how having Peter there with him was such a liability (it was), or was he thinking about how to escape on his own since Peter wasn’t going to help aid him in the previous plan?

Peter knew Mr. Stark cared for him, but something told him that when it came down to either Mr. Stark’s own life or Peter’s, the older man wouldn’t hesitate to save himself. Which honestly was totally fine by Peter—Mr. Stark was one of the most important people to the world and losing him would be detrimental to pretty much the whole universe. Peter was an insignificant teenager, who barely made a dent in the world of superhero-ing.

While losing Mr. Stark would cause the world to turn to a deep shade of grey and black ombre as they mourned his loss, life would continue like nothing ever occurred if something were to happen to Peter. 

“Can’t say the same,” Mr. Stark responded, and the exhaustion was almost palpable in his words. “I don’t even know who you are.”

The man smiled. It almost looked friendly. “Declan Cain. And don’t worry, you will by the time you’re done here.”

“You say that like I won’t be dead.”

“Oh, you won’t be,” Declan assured, and Peter used his elbows to prop himself up in surprise from where he was previously laying directly on his back. The cuts on his face from what he presumed was from the windshield of the car fragmentizing had already been reduced to nearly completely healed scar tissue, as well as the open wound from being smashed against the van’s floor. He could feel the tendons mending in his shoulder, shifting and pulling, but his leg was still in terrible condition. The point where the bone had broken through skin was sealed back together, but he was still sure the bone itself was in very unstable condition. He had no choice but to keep himself laying down.

Peter made sure his voice would be steady before interjecting himself into the conversation. “You don’t plan on killing us?” he dared to question. It was foolish to think so, but he wanted to understand the magnitude of the situation they were in as much as possible, and it seemed as though Declan was in a sharing mood.

All four men in the room turned their attention to him and Peter struggled to keep his posture, although weak, unrelenting. Declan snorted. “Who said anything about you?” he asked, and Peter’s head spun.

Mr. Stark asked for him. “Wait—what do you mean?”

Declan raised an eyebrow. “He was never a part of the package,” the man said simply, gesturing toward Peter’s form. “It was never about him. But I must say, I’m not complaining about a bonus. Might add some extra fun.”

Peter perked up at these words. All this would do is make it harder for the attention to be kept on him if Mr. Stark was the main prize. If they were going to get out of this safely, then Mr. Stark couldn’t be the target. Whatever these guys wanted, it wasn’t anything good, and giving them whatever they desired would do nothing but bring new evils. 

“In fact,” Declan continued, “you might even prove useful. What exactly can you do, Spider-Man?”

Peter forced a grin onto his face. “Come here and I’ll show you first-hand. I’m not exactly, well, mobile right now. Thanks for that, by the way.”

“Our pleasure,” Boots snarled. “If this situation were in my hands right now, you’d be splattered across the wall, bug.”

“Arachnid,” Peter corrected, frowning. “Why can nobody get that right?”

“Kid,” Mr. Stark warned, yet it was too late. Peter’s spider sense spiked, and he forced himself to stay still as Boots took two swift steps and sent a punch to Peter’s face that threw him back to the ground. The taste of copper flooded his taste buds instantly, and Peter inwardly groaned. That was going to bruise for sure. He saw Mr. Stark startle in his peripherals and hoped the man would stay put, not needlessly putting himself in harm’s way.

Boots leaned down in his face. “Don’t test me.”

“I won’t,” Peter assured. “Any test I give you, you’ll fail spectacularly. Seriously, how can you think a spider is a bug?” he questioned seriously.

Another punch. Peter felt his lip tear and a bone in his jaw shift, and all he could think about was, jeez, now talking is going to be painful as shit, which might be problematic. This time he stayed down, not bothering to try and sit up. His shoulder was hurting again, and he didn’t think he’d even be capable of pulling himself back up once more, just to go down again.

“Rick, that’s enough,” he heard Declan say sternly from further back, and Peter listened as Boots’—Rick’s—heartbeat slowed and retreated.

“Yeah, Rick, that’s enough,” Peter mocked from the ground. The guy seriously did listen to every word Declan said. 

“The kid gets his sass from you, Stark,” Tristan pointed out. “Wouldn’t be surprised if he really is some sort of bastard child of yours.”

That must’ve been the straw that broke the camel’s back. Before Peter could even register what was happening, he heard shuffling from Mr. Stark’s side of the room and a pained shout from Tristan. Peter sat up, eyes widening as he saw his mentor on top of the guy, sending fist after fist into his face and showing no sign of stopping. Then, they narrowed after he noticed Declan was doing absolutely nothing to stop the fray, even when Rick was hurriedly trying to join in and protect his friend.

It didn’t take long for Rick to pry Mr. Stark off Tristan, and Peter had to react quickly and roll out of the way as Mr. Stark was thrown to the ground harshly right where Peter had just been laying.

Something stirred in his chest as he noticed Rick coming back to give Mr. Stark a second round. This was now personal. And Peter couldn’t allow that to happen.

He made up his mind quickly. As Rick went to throw a fist toward Mr. Stark’s unprotected face, Peter lunged over and caught it. If they weren’t in such a dire situation, Peter might laugh at the look of shock on Rick’s face, but they were so he stayed quiet and focused.

Peter smirked. “Spider-Man, remember?” he said, then began to squeeze.

He didn’t stop when he heard bones creak under his hand. He didn’t hesitate when Rick let out a pained gasp which gradually turned into a guttural scream. Nor did he pause when Rick attempted a desperate shove with his free hand at Peter’s face to get him to stop. Peter just caught and twisted that, too.

He only relented when he finally heard a satisfying crack as Rick's fingers and most likely his wrist snapped into pieces. He let go, and Rick howled in pain, backing up as much as possible and almost tripping Declan.

The silence was deafening. Then, a slow clap.

Peter glanced over at Declan in mild surprise. The man had a kind of delirious smile on his face, watching the fight as though they were a science experiment. Peter felt unsettled.

Nobody spoke for a few moments. Rick’s moans eventually quieted as the shock wore off, and Peter heard Mr. Stark’s heartbeat return to a somewhat normal pace. As long as Peter could hear that sound, then everything was good in the world. 

On another hand, Peter nearly felt like passing out. Using his left arm to catch the second punch had pushed him close to his limit, but in the end, he decided it was worth it. By the morning—not that Peter could tell what time it was, as the room was windowless and he had no idea how long he’d been knocked out—he should be mostly healed. After all, even if their captors decided to forgo giving them food for the next day or two, Peter had just eaten a good meal at the restaurant and was fine until his metabolism decided to start demanding more.

He drew himself back to the present. “Well,” he started, “now that we’ve all established our acquaintances, what next? Sit around a campfire, sing a song, eat some marshmallows? Ooh—marshmallows sound good right now.”

Declan merely looked at him, his interest obviously piqued. “You’re scared to death,” he said casually.

Peter knew this game. A mental study. Declan had seen his capabilities in the physical side, now he was gauging the second half. This wasn’t Peter’s first kidnapping—he’d actually staged a few as a sting operation with Mr. Stark’s extremely (and by extremely, he really does mean it) reluctant help—but he pretty much understood the routine.

Before Peter could respond, Mr. Stark jumped in. “He’s a kid, of fucking course—”

“How’d you draw that conclusion?” Peter interrupted instead.

Declan shrugged. “Humor’s common for people like you to conceal what you’re feeling.”

“Well I mean, you guys are pretty comical. Kidnapping the Tony Stark? I’m not sure what else could be more hilarious than your clear idiocy,” Peter snapped.

Declan nodded. “How about your parents? How are they doing? Oh, wait—they died. And so did your uncle. But wait, your aunt! How long until she’s next? What’s her name…May?”

Peter stilled, numbness sweeping through him. This was no amateur—he’d likely done his research before he walked in here. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he gritted through clenched teeth.

“You don’t? So, if I said that I had my men positioned outside her house right now, you wouldn’t care?”

Peter ignored the bait. He’d gotten all the information he needed. “I would care, but not because she’s my—what, my aunt, you said? I wouldn’t want you killing some random woman who’s innocent.”

Declan had said house. They don’t live in a house; they live in an apartment. Meaning Declan was making empty threats to try and keep him under his leash, and that Peter still had an extremely small chance to conceal his personal life from these people.

“I like you,” Declan concluded finally. “Remind me to give my men a bonus for bring you in.”

“It’ll be the first thing on my mind,” Peter said sarcastically.

Declan smiled, huffing a small laugh. Then, “Well, I suppose you’re wondering why you’re here, Stark,” as he turned to face Tony. “Shall we talk?”

Mr. Stark looked up, seeming relieved to finally be addressed. “Gladly.”

Declan and Tristan stepped forward, each grabbing one of Mr. Stark’s shoulders roughly, as Rick watched on through pained eyes in the corner of the cage. Peter’s stomach dropped, and he inwardly cursed Mr. Stark’s compliance, but he understood why he’d done it. Peter had kept Declan’s attention too long. This was such a tedious game—if Peter didn’t keep their attention on him, they’d go for Mr. Stark, but if he kept it on him much longer, then Mr. Stark would take matters into his own hands.

Declan looked down at Peter, then kicked the cuffs he’d entered the room with and soon thereafter abandoned on the floor over to him. Peter bit his lip in unease. 

“Put those on. Both hands looped behind one bar on the left side. Don’t, and you’ll just make things more complicated for Tony, here.” He gave a final wink, then began opening the first keypad to the cell cage. 

“Oh, and Rick? Have at him.”

And then they were gone, Mr. Stark making a noise of protest that was cut off by the door slamming shut. Peter didn’t know what was going to happen to Mr. Stark, and it made him nervous. But whatever it was, they’d work through it, and Peter would make sure to do better on keeping them interested in him.

He hesitantly leaned over and grabbed the cuffs by his side, then sighed at what he’d have to do. He was in the center of the room, meaning he’d have to use both his arms to get him over to the side. But it was for Mr. Stark. It was always for Mr. Stark.

“Get a move on,” Rick grumbled.

“Impatient,” Peter muttered under his breath, but purposely loud enough for Rick to hear.

He made his journey over to the side, then studied the cuffs in his hand. Definitely vibranium. Once he did this, it was final until they decided to release him.

“You know I won’t be able to get these on myself, right? Can’t do both hands on my own,” Peter said. He stuck his right arm through the first bar and connected the handcuff around his wrist. It felt heavy and cold, the metal uncomfortable. He knew it’d be chafed quite soon.

Rick rolled his eyes, then exited the cage, circling around behind him. Peter cautiously moved his left arm between another set of bars, but it didn’t matter because it was soon yanked painfully to join his other hand. Rick latched that, too, but even after it was done, his hand didn’t leave Peter’s.

Peter knew what was coming and braced himself, but it was fruitless.

He screamed as his wrist was snapped in two.

An eye for an eye.

Or rather a hand for a hand, he thought inanely, and then promptly passed out.

_______

Tony tried to keep track of where they were taking him, Declan’s parting words to Rick resonating in his mind. Two lefts, a hundred-ten paces, right, left, second door on the right. This place was big. And very, very confusing. Tony began to doubt this was some privatized, single group of people with a lust for revenge about something he’d done in his past. This was its own corporation, like Hydra, on the rise, and Tony soon decided that Declan wasn’t even the lord of the land.

There was someone higher. Someone leading all of this. And this? This was bad. This was very, very bad. Because they’d done something that Hydra hadn’t, and was stupid not to; they captured Tony Stark, with leverage. Tony began to regret showing his anger at their tone toward Peter, because he mistakenly showed just how valuable their leverage was.

“Sit,” Declan said as they entered the room and Tristan waited at the door, motioning to one of the chairs at a metal table. They hadn’t even bothered restraining Tony, and Tony knew why. If he did anything wrong, they’d simply go back to Peter. Being this powerless frustrated him, but he obeyed and took his place. 

Declan sat across from him. “Do you know why you’re here?” he asked.

Tony laughed at the ludicrousness of it. “You took me from my own car and drove me hours away to the middle of nowhere. You want something, so just spit it out.”

“Correct,” Declan nodded. “By now I’m sure you’ve noticed what’s happening here is a lot larger and more complex than you thought. And by thinking that, you’d be right. Think of like…” he paused. “An off-brand Hydra. After all, they were the inspiration for all this.”

Tony swallowed. “So then what’s your endgame?”

“And you think you have the ground to ask that question?” Declan asked, then laughed. “No. You’re here to do what I say. See, now my original plan was to get you to—”

“Let me guess, build something?” Tony assumed.

“—build me something that would allow us to infiltrate some of the highest-ranking U.S. military bases. However…I think we’ve got something much better on our hands.”

“Do you now?”

“We do,” Declan said, smiling. “Peter.”

Tony fumbled over his words for a second, but quickly regrouped. “Peter?” he laughed. “He’s a sixteen-year-old kid.”

“A sixteen-year-old kid who can stick to walls, catch a bus, and not to mention, is ridiculously intuitive for his age, sure. We’re not above using child soldiers. And you’re going to help.”

Tony stood up quickly and slammed his hands on the table in front of him. “You do not touch him,” he growled.

“You’re not in any position to make orders,” Declan said calmly. “You touch me, they hurt him. You don’t comply, we do things our own way. We don’t need you anymore, Stark, when we have him. We can make do, but it certainly won’t be as nice as it would be with your hands’ touch. Is that what you want?”

“You’re going to hurt him anyway!”

“True,” Declan admitted, shrugging. “But you’re the dictator here for how much.”

Tony sat down again, glaring daggers. He wasn’t wearing handcuffs, but he certainly felt chained. If he did this…bad things would happen. Peter was strong—stronger than anybody he’d met aside from Wanda. It made him sick to even think it, but Peter could be used as a weapon. He could do terrible things. Would Peter even want that?

But then again, Declan said they would just do it anyway, and Tony doubted they’d be kind. They’d have to break Peter first…and Peter was resilient. Way too resilient for his own good. The methods they’d have to resort to…

He didn’t know. On one hand, a lot of people could get hurt. On the other… Peter… 

All he wanted to fucking do today was just hang out with his kid and have a good tine, and instead, he’s being forced to make one of the hardest decisions of his life. He didn’t know… he didn’t…

“So what’s it going to be, Stark?”

Tony looked up, defeated. 

“Fine.”

_______

Tony walked on his own back to the cage. Tristan was at his hip, but they both knew he wouldn’t be trying anything. He was essentially under their lock and key. 

They entered the room, and the first thing Tony noticed was Peter, shackled to the bars of the cage and head facing down, limp. He felt his insides twist and shoved at Tristan’s hold. This was the worst kind of torture.

“Relax, Stark, he’s not dead. Or at least, I don’t think he is.”

The cage opened, and Tony practically sprinted in there. Hurriedly, he knelt at Peter’s side, and took his head in his hands. His eyes were closed, face bruised. Desperately, he put a hand to Peter’s neck, searching for a pulse, and let out a sigh of relief when he found one that was completely steady.

“What’d you do to him?” Tony asked, voice shaking unwillingly.

“Hell if I know,” Tristan said. “But you got thirty seconds to back away from him. Ground rules, courtesy of boss. One, you don’t talk. Two, you don’t touch. Three, what happens in that conference room stays in that conference room. You discuss anything that was said in there, then severe repercussions will follow.”

Tristan locked the cage door again. “Do you understand?”

Tony felt like he wanted to throw up. “Yes,” he said quietly.

“Sorry? I didn’t hear you.”

“Yes! I fucking understand, okay? No talking, no touching, no discussing what happened in that room. Now leave us alone.”

Tristan nodded, then backed away to the second door. “Time’s up. We will know the moment you break one of the rules. So do yourself a favor and don’t. Now back away, and stay quiet. Maybe we’ll be kind enough to give you two a pillow.”

And with that, he was gone.

Tony, seeing no other choice, abandoned Peter’s side and backed away to the opposite side of the cage. “Fuck…” he muttered.

Tony doesn’t get scared often. But this? He’s absolutely terrified. These guys know exactly what they have, and they know exactly how to get what they want. He looked at Peter’s stoic form, but concentrated on the chest rising and falling.

This would kill Peter. The kid would wake up, and be so confused, asking questions that Tony couldn’t answer due to the proverbial muzzle on his mouth. 

Tony almost wondered what would be worse. Knowing what he was tasked with doing and having no choice but to do it, or staring into Peter’s soft eyes that hold so much trust in him, only to turn around and drive a knife in the kid’s back. 

Peter used to tell Tony that he was a hero, and that what he did mattered. That he saved so many lives, made the world a vastly better place, was the light in the shithole of a world they lived in. Would he still believe that after this? Would he still think of him as his mentor? As his…

Tony knew the answer and it was simple: no. What was about to happen here would drive a hole in their relationship forever.

And that was probably the worst pain of it all.


	4. And Every Trauma is a Turnkey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I did a decent amount of research for this chapter. I’ve always had this headcannon in which Peter can hear exceptionally well, including hearing heartbeats. However, much to my chagrin, I’ve realized that may or may not be the case, and there’s quite a bit of controversy. Many people say he doesn’t in fact have heightened senses, and therefore does not have these Daredevil-like qualities. 
> 
> However, there are a few instances in the MCU’s Spider-Man films where it does talk about his senses: i.e., how his senses have been dialed to eleven, and also how he needs the goggles to help him focus his sight. Furthermore—and I’m not a comic person, but I did do some research like I said—in the 1976 Spectacular Spider-Man #25 - #28, it did go into details about how he can smell grass and hear a person’s heartbeat with his advanced hearing.
> 
> Then again, we don’t have any proof of this being canonical specifically in the MCU, but this is my story, and I’m going to ultimately choose to include what I wish. I like to keep my stories as accurate as possible, but sometimes I like to crawl further out on the branch and expand my horizons. So, I will be writing as though he has the senses explored in the aforementioned comics. It gives me a broader range of things to delve into in this fic, and perhaps makes Peter a lil more badass. 
> 
> I also explored his healing factor a bit. Most sources seem to agree that injuries that could take weeks for a normal human to heal, could be fixed in hours for Peter. Therefore, that is also what I am going with here. 
> 
> Another important note: I've had some truly mean ideas pop into my mind. This story gets DARK. And I mean dark. Not necessarily this chapter yet, but holy shit my brain had it out for Peter apparently. So, please make sure you guys are reading safe. Keep checking tags.
> 
> Trigger Warning (press view end notes to see (small spoilers, but please read safe))
> 
> Enjoy!

When Peter woke up, his head hurt the worst of all; it throbbed in timed pulses, each one hurting worse than the last. Having not opened his eyes yet, he let his senses rush over him and return to him at their own pace. Much trial and error had occurred throughout the past year before Peter had finally determined that after returning from the depths of unconsciousness, it was best to take it slow and to use his sight last.

He focused on his ears first, taking in the surroundings of the room. There wasn’t much, except for a single heartbeat not far away from him, slow and steady. He strained to see if he could hear a bit more, but there was nothing. He bit his lip.

Next, he moved to smell, but that, too, had disconcerting results. Only the smell of the musty and dank room they were being kept in, moldy infestations probably being the main cause.

Touch was a little more revealing than the previous two. He felt heavy weights pulling on his wrists, rough and scratchy, and that’s what ended up bringing back the memories, since they certainly weren’t his webshooters. It was then when he felt the dull piercing pain in his left arm, a not-so-gentle reminder of what had occurred before he’d passed out from the pain. But it felt okay; it definitely wasn’t still broken and seemed like it healed the right way just fine. But Mr. Stark—

He forgot about taking it slow and instantly opened his eyes, ignoring the burning of his retinas that came with it. The room was the same as it’d been left, but he was relieved to find the source of the heartbeat and breathing did in fact belong to Mr. Stark. He wasn’t sure he would’ve been able to take it if it’d been someone else.

Mr. Stark’s eyes were open, studying him, and it made Peter recoil a bit at the lack of communication. Usually Mr. Stark would’ve said something the moment he’d seen a hint of Peter being awake. Instead, they just stared at each other.

“Mr. Stark…?” Peter tried, but got no response, nor a sign that he would be getting one anytime soon. It was strange…creepy almost. Something must’ve happened when he’d been taken away. Did they do something to his mind? Psychologically? Put him in a trance or something? It didn’t seem like it, but for Mr. Stark to be so… _quiet_ , was absurd. There was always a quip coming out of the man’s mouth.

Peter scanned the room instead, looking in more detail than he’d ever had before. The cage, the bars, both the padlocks, the two-way mirror he’d noticed when they were first brought in, the plain walls, the cameras in all four top corners of the room. It almost seemed like overkill, yet they’d done their job well. There was absolutely no weakness that Peter could pick out.

He closed his eyes for a moment, thinking, then decided to try again with his hearing. He zoned out everything else, including Mr. Stark, and cocked his head. For a moment there was nothing, except a leaky pipe he was probably hearing through one of the walls, but then out of nowhere, a voice.

It was soft, muffled, extremely distant, and Peter couldn’t make out the words. But it was there, meaning there was still people here and keeping a constant watch on them. Not that he’d suspected anything less, but still.

He instead directed his attention to one of the four cameras. He breathed a small laugh before he started, “Hey assholes!”

Mr. Stark’s head perked up at that, and he began shaking his head rapidly. Peter looked away from him. “I wasn’t satisfied with how abruptly our conversation ended yesterday. Would you like to resume? Because I’ve got some unsaid words.”

“Peter—”

Peter looked over to Mr. Stark in surprise, but it seemed like the man had just been caught like a deer in headlights. He started shaking his head.

“Peter, _don’t.”_

“Why?” Peter pressured. “Whatever they said, whatever they did to you, you can tell me. _Please._ ”

Mr. Stark put a hand to his forehead and said nothing more. Peter narrowed his eyes in frustration, then looked back to the camera again. “Hey, yeah, you! I’m talking to you! It’s rude to ignore your houseguests!”

Finally, he heard something he could focus on. Three pairs of footsteps, headed toward the room they were in. Probably Declan, Tristan, and Rick if he had to guess. He waited patiently until he heard the click of the padlock on the first door, and sure enough, the three of them entered.

“Mr. Parker!” Declan said with a warm smile.

“Mr. Cain!” Peter returned. “Your name kind of suits you, to be quite honest.”

“So I’ve been told. The originator of evil, greed, all that. It may have been brought up to me once or twice. Which means, I hope you understand, I’m not here for conversation.” He turned to Mr. Stark. "Tony, you broke a rule. I was planning on starting things a bit later, and giving you guys some time to prepare, but I suppose it’s been long enough, don’t you think?”

Mr. Stark glared. “You’ll regret this. I will make you regret this.”

“Yes, I’ve also heard that before. I’m sure you will, Stark. In your dreams, perhaps, but not now, and not here,” Declan responded. “Tristan, Rick, you know where to bring him. I’ll be waiting.” He then swiftly left the room.

Peter followed Tristan with his eyes as he wrapped around the cage with a key and unlocked his handcuffs. “Up,” he demanded, “then connect them again.”

Peter obliged, seeing no other choice, and tediously stood to his feet, testing his bad leg with his weight. It held, and there wasn’t even any pain to accompany it anywhere in his body. Overall, he felt good, but his body was still probably working overtime. He was exhausted, and knew he’d run out of fuel without food soon enough.

He hesitated for a moment, and then locked the handcuffs back in place. Tristan rounded back to the front and unlocked the cage door, and Peter desperately looked at the freedom that lay beyond. _Maybe Mr. Stark was right—maybe he had a point—maybe Peter could—_

Tristan stepped next to him, grabbed his shoulder, and shoved him forward. Peter stumbled but remained upright. “Move.”

Rick was about two meters to the left of the exit to the room. Peter did the math quickly in his head, and then, taking a deep breath, stepped outside the cage. The moment he did, he turned around and elbowed Tristan in the face. The man let out a surprised yelp of pain and struggled to maintain his footing, a hand shooting to his nose. Seeing the opening, Peter rotated and swung his leg out, letting the momentum do the work and take Tristan’s feet out from under him.

By now, Rick was uselessly trying to intervene, but with his broken hand it was quite easy for Peter to change to defensive and deflect the attack. In retaliation, he raised a foot and kicked Rick in the stomach before he could even try to come up with the idea of dodging, and he crumpled to the floor.

Peter’s senses alerted him just then, and he feinted right, the fist that came swinging his way hitting nothing but open air where Peter’s head used to be. Peter twisted, agile as ever, and quickly made his way behind Tristan. By now his hand was starting to hurt a little from where Rick had broke it the day before, but it didn’t mean his muscle memory was absent, and instead he tried to forget about the pain and focus on his instincts and senses.

He wrapped his cuffed hands around Tristan’s neck, and pulled. The older man gasped for breath, realizing what was happening, and tried to shove Peter back by elbowing him in the abdomen, but Peter held strong, ignoring the jabs. Just as Tristan’s muscles began to relax, Peter released him, throwing him forward to the ground. Peter will defend himself, but he still refused to kill anybody. If he did, then he gave in to what he’s been trying to avoid forever—using his powers for harm.

Peter straightened, breathing heavily. He’d done it, but this was only the first step. He still needed to find his way out of this mess of a compound. The cameras had caught everything that had just happened, so he had little time to spare. He started forward, turning Tristan, who was still gasping for breath, onto his back, and searched his pockets for the keys to his cuffs. He found them fast and unlocked the vibranium, letting it fall to the ground by his feet.

“What happened to not trying to escape?” a voice came from behind.

Peter paused for a moment, and then curtly responded, “I changed my mind, Mr. Stark. Whatever they did to you I’m not okay with. Stay here. I’ll come back for you.”

With that he shut the cage door and hurried to the next one, taking in its state. Metal, but not vibranium. He kicked it open with ease, not caring about the pointless padlock that was supposed to keep it locked.

“Peter, _wait they’re—_ ”

He left the room. What faced him was a long corridor, with many different paths branching off to both the left and right. It looked like a complete and utter maze. Seeing no other choice, he started running forward, and took the first left he saw. It led to another, similar corridor, with more branches leading off in each direction.

“What that hell…” he muttered, but continued on.

He found himself taking a left, right, going straight for a bit, turning right again, and then left. This place was stupid, he thought, and Peter slowly found himself getting more frustrated. Too distracted by the mess of hallways, he’d had yet to think about why this seemed so easy that there was nobody out and about, until he distantly heard the pounding of footsteps.

He stopped in his tracks. Ah, shit.

Letting his hearing take over, he heard maybe ten-something pairs of running, and Peter knew they were onto him. His newfound panic spurred him into motion, and he began sprinting again, trying to navigate a route that would lead him far away from the people trying to track him down.

He made it another two minutes, and was finally feeling like he was in the clear when he could barely hear his pursuers anymore, when he rounded a turn and came face to face with a line of—

Well, the term soldiers didn’t really seem to do justice. Mercenaries, he supposed, were more accurate. There were more than twenty of them standing in front of him, heavily armed with what Peter assumed were assault rifles, and black tactical gear.

He jumped to the ceiling in fear.

Below the suppressed barrels of their guns were green lasers, and Peter soon found them all trained on him. Some on his chest and stomach, some on his forehead, but they were _everywhere._ He held completely still.

“Ah, hey guys…” he said shakily. “Surely we can work this—”

The gunshot seemed so loud to Peter, even if the shot was indeed suppressed. Before he knew it, he felt a sharp pain in his left thigh, and his grip on the ceiling released. For a second Peter panicked, pressing where he usually would keep his web shooters, but obviously nothing happened, and he slammed hard into the ground. The mercenaries moved around him to form a circle, and Peter felt trapped. Green lasers obscured his vision as every single gun in the room focused in on him. Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe.

He didn’t want to die—he didn’t want—

They never shot.

Peter risked a look up after a few seconds, and sure enough, the guns were still trained on him, but none of the masked mercenaries were pulling any triggers. “Um…”

“Mr. Parker!”

Peter scrunched his eyes shut, knowing that voice all too well.

“Declan,” he growled through a haze of pain.

“I see you met some of my friends. Sorry you guys didn’t off on the right foot, but I assure you they do know how to aim. You’ll be fine.”

Peter opened his eyes. “T-Thanks,” he sarcastically got out through labored breaths. “That makes me feel so much better.”

“It should.”

Peter wasn’t able to get one more word out before Declan made a gesture with his hand and three soldiers moved in, two grabbing his arms and another his waist, hauling him to his feet. Peter bit back a cry of pain as the bullet wound was readjusted, but it seemed like a clean shot, through-and-through.

Peter glared at Declan.

“Make any move, and we’ll do three times worse to Tony,” the man warned, and Peter swallowed roughly against the lump in his throat.

“What do you even want with me? I thought I was just a bonus,” he challenged, and hated the way there was a small tremor to his words. It was just the pain, he tried to rationalize. He was fine, this was _fine,_ someone had to be looking for them by now, _May—_

His sight tilted and turned and black spots danced before him. He felt himself falling, but the soldiers held him up and steady so Declan could see him properly. Peter hated being controlled this way.

He was used to being so free. Swinging throughout New York, not a care in the world, listening to Karen’s soothing voice in his ear, his guidance. Right now he was alone though, and he hated being alone. Everyone always left him; first his parents, Ben…

Goddamn he just wanted a break.

“Plans change,” Declan said simply. Another wave with his hand, and Peter felt his hands tugged behind him, the sound of chains causing his hair to stand up on his neck. His spider-sense wanted him to run. Peter truly did, too—he didn’t want to be subject to this bullshit. But did he really stand a chance? Peter was strong, but he wasn’t take-out-twenty-guys-with-guns strong.

The manacles locked, and Peter knew he was absolutely helpless now. Fear gripped him, but he’d had plenty of time to perfect his poker face. If villains saw weakness, then they saw cervices they could get to him through, and from there they could use it against him.

“I’d like to show you something,” Declan said suddenly. “Would you take a walk with me, Pete?”

“Don’t call me that,” Peter said quietly.

“What was that?”

“ _Don’t,”_ Peter threatened.

Declan raised his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. Forget it. Come with me, though, please.”

Peter, seeing no other choice, tried to take a step forward, but was instantly shoved to the ground by the mercenaries at his side, a yelp escaping his lips before he could even think of locking it up. His knees hit first and his bullet wound howled in pain, along with his newly scraped kneecaps.

On all fours, Peter looked up. “Not…cool…” he muttered.

Declan looked down to him. Peter hated it. It was an emotional tactic. The man wanted Peter to know he was beneath him, and Peter couldn’t even see any situation where he wouldn’t be anything else. He was completely at this lunatic’s mercy.

“I’ve given you a grace period, Peter,” Declan stated. Peter’s advanced hearing perked up at the sound of more chains behind him, and his spider-sense rumbled. “But you tried to run. We will not tolerate obedience here.”

Peter tried to turn around, but another soldier pushed him down with a solid kick to the back, and Peter, hands locked behind him, had no choice but to let his chin take the brunt of the force. His hands, he could handle, he could do that. But his feet too? He couldn’t—he _wouldn’t—_

The bonds clasped together. A silent tide of panic rushed through him, and Peter suddenly felt like he instead had chains around his neck, stealing his breath, instead of around his limbs. He tested them, and sure enough, they held fast.

Before he could realize what was happening or spit out a witty one-liner asking about how much goddamn vibranium they even had in this place, he was picked up by two people and drug throughout the halls. He doesn’t know how long it took for them to get to their destination, and he tried to keep track of the hallways, but he didn’t even know what his starting point was so there was no way he could even begin making a map in his head.

He was pulled into a dim-lit room and set, thankfully upright, on the floor. Normal people probably would have trouble seeing anything in it (not that there _was_ anything in it, as it was completely empty, gray walls lining all four sides) but Peter was of course different.

“Hate to break it to you, but I’m not scared of the dark guys.”

He heard the soldier to his right snort. Peter smiled slightly for a second, but then the realization that he was probably laughing because it wasn’t their intension just to leave him in a dark room made it fall pretty quick.

“At least this guy appreciates my humor, y’know?” he said instead, and this time there was no response. “Tough crowd…” he mumbled under his breath.

The soldier on Peter’s left cleared his throat. “Sir, if I don’t mind asking, why do you not put a muzzle on it?”

Peter jerked his head up, eyes wide. “ _It?_ ” he echoed. “Excuse me, asshole, I’m not a dog thank you very—”

Declan didn’t even let him finish, pretending like he wasn’t even there. “Because it’ll be nice to see his quips slowly fade away to begging.”

Peter watched in shock, silenced for once. This whole thing was so fucked up. He was in the hands of psychopaths. Literal psychopaths! He barely even registered Declan dismissing the three mercenaries that had entered the room with him, his mind completely running a mile a minute.

Soon though, it was just the two of them, and Declan lowered himself to sit on the floor across from Peter. No words were spoken, the older man just eyeing Peter with obvious interest.

“I won’t break,” Peter said first. “Not with Mr. Stark here I won’t. Try your best, but I won’t.”

Declan sighed. “Peter, everybody breaks. If you put enough pressure on just the right points, you’ll bend just enough until you—” he snapped his fingers, “—crack.”

“I won’t,” Peter insisted.

Declan cocked his head. “What would you say if I told you Tony was going to help us?”

“I’d say you were an idiot,” Peter shot back. There was no way. Absolutely no way, this was all a bluff, Declan wasn’t this smart, there was no possibility where Mr. Stark would even consider doing that, he tried to console himself, but there was a small snag of doubt in the back of his mind.

In here, they were on their own. Tony had Pepper, and Rhodes, and so many people to fight for; was Peter stupid to think he would put all that on the line to save _him?_ I mean yeah, they’d gotten close in the past few months. Peter would come over every Tuesday and Saturday for lab days and they’d work on suits and watch movies and tinker with different machines, but did that really justify what was at stake here?

Peter honestly didn’t know.

“Well it’s true,” Declan continued, and Peter felt his chest tighten.

“I thought your endgame had to do with Mr. Stark, not me,” Peter said.

Declan shifted his position on the ground, crossing his legs in front of him instead. “It used to,” he answered. “But as I said, plans—”

“Change, yes, I got it. You aren’t very organized, are you?” Peter interrupted. “Now what do you want to do with me?”

“If I told you, right now, to go sneak into one of the most protected military bases in the country right this second, would you obey?”

Peter’s jaw tightened. Great, so this was a power trip. “In your dreams.”

“More like in the near future,” Declan corrected, and his voice seemed almost wistful. “One day, your answer to that question will be yes.”

“Fuck you,” Peter snarled, as Declan began making his way to his feet.

“You won’t see me for a little bit Mr. Parker. But you’ll get to know this room just as well as the cell you were first brought into.”

“It’s a nice place,” Peter commented.

“Ah, yes, that’s right,” Declan said, turning around as he was just about to exit the room, one hand still on the door handle. “I forgot to mention, your aunt’s _apartment_ was a very nice place as well. I especially liked the pictures lining the small table to the left of the refrigerator. You three looked so happy.”

The door shut.

Silence.

Peter’s mind screamed.

The soldiers eventually dragged Peter back into the original room. He stared straight ahead, but no words came to his tongue, and the entirety of his vision was a blurred mess. Even the bullet wound was completely absent from the forefront of his head.

He barely felt the cuffs being relocked around his wrists. He barely heard Mr. Stark’s attempts to talk to him. He barely felt the hands on his face, in his hair, trying to get him to snap out of it.

They knew where May was. They _knew_. Peter had no idea whether she was safe, or if she was dead, or if they’d tortured her, or what the fuck was happening to her right now. Declan knew the exact placement of that picture of him, May, and Ben. He’d been _in_ their apartment.

He couldn’t breathe. His face suddenly began to numb, his breaths rapid and without rhythm. His hands shook behind him and his head pounded, the room suddenly becoming far too hot than it probably was supposed to be; he couldn’t breathe—he couldn’t—May could be—

_“Peter!”_

A sharp burning across his cheek made his eyes rapidly snap up to the person in front of him.

Holy shit.

Mr. Stark just slapped him.

“M-Mr. Stark?” he asked even though he knew the answer, his voice trembling to the point it was probably hard to understand what he had just said.

“It’s me, bud,” Mr. Stark affirmed, and Peter almost let out of a sob right then and there. He hated this. He just wanted to go home, go to school, hell he would pay to see Flash’s face right now.

“May—”

“Peter focus on your breathing first. You’re having a panic attack. Calm down. Match your breaths with mine. You’re fine. You’re okay. Just relax,” he said softly, and Peter found himself listening. It took a few minutes, but he was beginning to find the oxygen that had just previously up and abandoned him.

Once he was sure his words wouldn’t come out shaky, Peter tried again. “They know where May and I live. Fuck, Tony, he was _in my apartment._ ”

Mr. Stark shook his head. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely positive. What if May—what if they…”

“Peter whatever you’re thinking is not the case. They have not touched May. This is a mind game, you hear?” Mr. Stark said.

“How do you know?” Peter said, on the verge of tears, the panic attack threatening to return. “Tony what if they—”

“They didn’t. I know because the first thing May did when you didn’t come home was go to the compound to try and contact me. And when she couldn’t find me, she called Pepper. You know those two are close. Pepper would have told the team, and she sure as hell would not have let May go back to her apartment alone. You understand?”

Peter let the words rush over him. They were a comfort, and they made sense. But Mr. Stark didn’t know for a hundred percent. May could’ve assumed Peter had stayed late with Mr. Stark, or she could’ve texted and Declan could’ve sent a message back on Peter’s phone, impersonating him. There was too much margin for error, but he knew panicking wasn’t going to get him anywhere. He had to get out of here. The only way he was going to find out if May was okay was if he listened to what they told him to do and bide his time. He knew he couldn’t do everything they were asking of him, but he could at least make this as easy as possible to not piss Declan off.

“You good kid?” he heard Mr. Stark ask, and he nodded in return.

“I’m fine.”

There was a pause, stilted and uneasy.

“Why wouldn’t you talk to me before?” Peter decided to ask.

Mr. Stark took a second before answering. “They told me they’d hurt you if I did.”

“You’re talking to me now,” Peter pointed out.

“Because it’s pretty clear they’re going to hurt you either way,” Mr. Stark replied angrily, gesturing to the bullet wound.

“It’ll heal. Besides, it barely hurts.” Peter shrugged. For the most part it was the truth, as he couldn’t really feel it that much with the adrenaline pumping through his veins. The skin around it was pretty numb, and Peter couldn’t really move it with the cuffs around his feet.

Mr. Stark closed his eyes for a moment, taking a breath, then reopening them. “Peter, they want me to help them hurt you.”

Peter looked at Mr. Stark, studying him. It looked like this was seriously tearing him up inside, and Peter wished it weren’t this way. He wished they could’ve finished dinner in peace and be back in their normal routine, but they didn’t, and here they were.

“I know,” Peter said gently. “So do it. You don’t have a choice.”

“Peter, _no—”_

“You don’t have a choice,” Peter repeated, hoping he could believe it enough for the both of them, leaning his head back and finally closing his eyes for the first time in a long time of his own volition.

Maybe he could actually get some sleep in this hellhole.

From the looks of it, he’d need it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter has a panic attack about May being threatened. It is somewhat descriptive and based on a panic attack I myself have had, but is not long.
> 
> \--
> 
> Also, I would not mind a beta reader for this story. I feel I do good with my grammar, but I do miss things, so someone to bounce ideas off and check my chapters would be amazing. If you're interested, please contact me at: ktoon.yt@gmail.com
> 
> Thanks guys, and I love each and every one of you all. Your comments make my day, and holy kudos thank you so much. This story will never be abandoned.


	5. Lesser of Two Evils

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, I'm so sorry y'all for the lack of updates. Life has been cray-cray. I will try and be better.
> 
> As for this chapter, I'm pretty unsatisfied with it. But before I could delete it all and decide to re-write, I thought about how that wouldn't be fair to y'all and I should get a chapter to you guys rather then spending another few weeks waiting for it be perfect. It gets better from here. No, this isn't going to just be a fic with repeated torture for the entire duration of things. I have some twists coming up you guys might like--well, okay, not necessarily 'like', because it's pretty cruel--but y'know what I mean lol.
> 
> I hope you enjoy. A comment would mean the world.

Tony was, for arguably one of the first and perhaps only times in his life, completely, and utterly, dumbfounded. This whole situation made him rethink a quite a bit of things. How had he managed to get here?

Well, he obviously let his guard down. After Afghanistan he’d sworn he’d never do it again—ensured that he always had a suit of armor on him at all times, constantly was aware of his surroundings, every little thing that was happening around him. Pepper said it was a form of PTSD, and that he was safe; nothing like that was bound to happen again she assured, her voice soothing, and Tony found himself believing it.

The problem was Tony Stark was a royal asshole. One who happened to be a billionaire with an inflated ego and managed to piss off quite a bit of people. His popularity alone was enough to get villains’ interest piqued, but add on Ironman, and he had established a substantial number of vendettas.

The point is, he got too comfortable, and now Peter was paying the price for it. If Tony were being quite frank, he’d seriously grown attached to the kid. When he’d first met him in that dingy apartment room, he knew things were seriously going to change for him; everybody knew Tony Stark didn’t care for kids. His own father may have had a hand or two plus a few words of hate to do with that, but something about Peter was different.

And now he was being waterboarded. Fucking. Waterboarded.

Before this, though, after Peter had passed out, Declan had showed enough mercy to at least let him get a few hours of blissful sleep. Tony was exhausted, having not slept for who knows how long, but he refused to let his eyes shut. Instead, he kept his gaze trained on Peter’s leg, watching the blood staining his pants slowly dry and harden the fabric. The kid had first had his leg completely snapped in two, and now it was home to a bullet.

Sweat dripped down Peter’s face in his sleep, and Tony wondered for a moment whether blood loss was about to be a concerning factor. But as time passed, Peter’s pallor returned to a somewhat normal hue, and Tony’s worry dulled.

They came in fast.

At least five soldiers—dressed in black gear that would, although dark and camouflaged, be seared brightly into Tony’s mind forever—forced their way into the cage. Peter woke with a jerk and Tony watched as they advanced on his disoriented state. The kid probably didn’t even know what was happening. One soldier unlocked his handcuffs from outside the cage, and two more harshly pulled him to his feet. Peter didn’t have the strength to find his footing though, and as he stumbled, he was caught in the soldiers’ arms and started to be dragged toward the door, mumbling something about not being able to at least get his six hours.

Tony didn’t know what to do. He stood up, thankful they hadn’t decided to chain him yet, and questioned, “Where the fuck are you taking him?”

One of the soldiers turned back toward him, swinging his gun to his back, as the two pulling Peter—who didn’t necessarily fight back, but certainly didn’t make it easy—made their way out the door.

“Would you like to find out? Boss said you might find it amusing.”

The manic indifference in the soldier’s voice made Tony feel uneasy.

“Well you’ve obviously caught my interest, so I can’t help but wonder. Why not?”

The man advanced on him and Tony let him take his arms and lead him throughout the hallways. At this point he didn’t even try and keep track of where they were or where they were being taken, too stressed about what was going to happen. Whatever it was, it wasn’t going to be good.

It wasn’t long before he was yanked into a door to his right and forced into a room. The lighting was dim and temperature cold. The soldier controlling him pulled his arms behind his back, and Tony felt the handcuffs lock together. He was wondering when it was going to happen, but fucking hell it still felt restricting and final. He looked at his surroundings.

The place was featureless, for the most part, except for a few key details. Tony counted seven soldiers in the room with him plus one disheveled spider-kid with his hands cuffed in front of him, and he found himself vaguely wondering how much power Declan and this organization had if they managed to scrounge up what looked to be a small army. Not to mention the firearms and gear they wielded. He’d already known it, but damn they were dealing with a whole new ball game right now.

Two soldiers were on Peter, keeping him still, and one on Tony. Another pair stood alert, guarding the door, hands on their guns, and another two were pulling what sounded like a large, heavy object into view. Tony looked at Peter, to find the kid staring right back at him. They locked gazes, and Peter’s seemed to hold a kind of sadness that Tony wasn’t sure he’d ever seen.

He wanted to say something. Anything, really, because the room was way too silent and the atmosphere it created alone was enough to drive Tony up the freaking wall, but mostly because he wanted to tell the kid that things were going to be fine. Not that he could truly guarantee that, but if they weren’t going to have faith that things would work themselves out in the end, then what was the point?

Tony watched as the soldiers continued to drag the object into the room, and only when it was centered and they stepped back, did he realize what their intentions were.

“No, absolutely not,” he said desperately. “Don’t you fucking dare, I swear to god—”

He tried to shove the hands off him but the man holding him remained steady, tightening his grip even more. It was pointless.

“You guys are maniacs,” Tony insisted, but nobody seemed to hear him, his voice falling on deaf ears. The only person in the room that seemed to show some sort of acknowledgement of him was Peter, but even the kid was probably too distracted to fully listen to what he was saying.

Not more than a moment later, one of the soldiers kicked the back of Peter’s knees, forcing him onto the ground in front of the trough filled with water. It was then that Tony noticed another man, lingering in the shadows of the room, who seemed to be watching with interest.

“Is this the subject?” the new man asked, directed at nobody in particular, and Tony eyed the kids’ reaction. “He’s tiny.”

Peter looked up with a lopsided grin on his face. “You have funny hair,” he deadpanned, and if Tony could facepalm, he definitely would’ve. Not that he was wrong, the guy definitely had some weird style that looked like he’d tried to cut his hair on his own in a bathroom mirror and failed quite miserably, but that was not what he was expecting.

The new man turned to face Peter. “You do not speak unless you are spoken to, mutant.”

Peter seemed unfazed by the lack of proper pronouns, which was way more than Tony could say for himself. It seemed as though they didn’t even view Peter as a person, and that pissed Tony off more than anything else that had happened yet in this hellhole—this kid, being called a _mutant_ as his name. Peter may have some DNA of a spider, but he was still just as human as the rest of them.

He was dragged out of his thoughts by Peter’s voice. “You know, that’s what your old friend D said too. Guess I don’t know how to listen. To be honest, you could probably ask Mr. Stark about that too and he’d agree.” Peter cocked his head. “I don’t answer to you, and I will not _ever_ answer to you. I’ll do whatever I damn well—”

The whip was drawn fast. Tony hadn’t even noticed it on the guy’s belt, as it was on the opposite side facing him, but the _thwack_ that resounded throughout the room as it hit Peter’s back was enough to freeze him to the bone.

The room was silent. Peter didn’t even let out a single sign to show he was in pain, but Tony knew it had to sting like a bitch; he just wished Peter knew he didn’t have to smother his hurt. It probably just made things ten times worse anyway.

Eventually, Peter looked back up at the new man, and snarled darkly, “You hit like a girl.”

The whip came crashing down again, and once more, Peter refused to show any signs of pain aside from a sharp intake of breath. Tony shoved against the people holding him again as the new man, who he’d decided to name Asshole for more than obvious reasons, straightened.

“First of all,” Asshole began, “I’m going to tell you what you need to know, and whether you choose to believe me or not is completely up to you. It won’t matter, because you will eventually. But don’t talk back. It _will_ make things harder on yourself. You don’t have a name. You are our subject, our weapon, and nothing—”

Asshole paused, and Tony closed his eyes in what was almost second-hand embarrassment as he watched Peter let out a long, drawn out yawn. The whip came down again, and this time Peter fell to his hands as it connected with the back of his shirt, letting out a small yelp of pain.

“Do I bore you, or something, _subject?”_ Asshole asked, and Tony could tell his patience was wearing thin.

“Kinda,” Peter admitted, grabbing on to the side of the water trough and raising himself back to his knees. “You’re pretty unoriginal in your monologue. Like, seriously. If you’re gonna even monologue—which, you shouldn’t, it’s dumb—then at least make it about something interesting.”

Asshole raised an eyebrow. “You are an intriguing one.”

Peter smiled toothily. “Thanks, I try.”

Tony watched interestedly as Asshole took a few steps back, turned to one of the soldiers, and consulted him. There was an exchange of whispered words that Tony couldn’t make out, but Peter clearly could, if the sharp jerk of the head to look at them in shock was any indication. When they got out of this, Tony was going to make sure the two of them went over a proper course of being kidnapped—and how rule number one is to _not antagonize your captors,_ as it only made matters worse.

After a few moments, Asshole broke away and turned to face Peter.

The worrying thing Tony noticed right off the bat was Peter’s face didn’t reflect a sarcastic cockiness like before. Tony’s first thought was that they’d threatened himself—which, about time—and were instead going to make the two of them trade places. In fact, he was almost so sure about that fact that he quite nearly let out a sigh of relief, because from past experience, nothing else was enough to make _Peter_ of all people go quiet.

Yet, they didn’t start unlocking his cuffs, they didn’t start moving Peter away from the water, they didn’t start dragging Tony onto the floor. Asshole put a hand on his belt, fingers brushing over the whip. Yeah, Tony might not have hit the mark here.

“May I ask you a question, Mr. Parker?” Asshole began.

“40,” Peter responded, voice all no-nonsense. “You give me the forty.” There was no trace of humor, no quips in Peter’s tone, and the fact of the proper noun usage had not even been commented on was enough to make Tony begin to panic.

“I’m feeling a little left out here, you guys,” Tony mentioned casually, wanting to be let in on all the secrecy.

Asshole looked at Peter. “You want to be the one to tell him the proposition?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Peter said, “just do it. I know you’re itching to. You knew I’d make this decision the moment you proposed it. Stop gloating.”

“Kid?”

The whip cracked down, and Tony flinched at the suddenness of it all. Peter remained quiet.

“What, got nothing to say now?” Asshole said as he bent down next to Peter’s face.

Peter turned, and replied slowly, “Go to hell.”

_Crack._

Only a few lashes in, and Peter’s shirt was becoming increasingly threadbare. The marks of the whip were layered in different directions across his back with spots of red blossoming from the points of contact.

Finally, Asshole stood up and addressed Tony. “I gave Peter the choice of 40 lashes from my hand, or 10 from yours,” he said plainly, then turned around and _crack._ _Crack. Crack._ Asshole stepped back from Peter and faced Tony again.

At first, the words didn’t process with him. Then, “What the fuck, Pete?” Ten versus forty, and Peter had chosen _40?_ Was he _trying_ to get himself killed?

To Peter’s credit, he had the sense to look guilty. Goddamn, Tony was going to strangle him, and it wasn’t going to be pretty. “Wanna run me through that decision, kid?” he continued. “Because I’m pretty sure I just heard you decided to completely demolish the skin on your back when it could’ve been avoided. You do realize he said _forty_ , right? Four-zero? Not zero-four? Not fourteen? And I thought you were good at math!”

“Mr. Stark…”

 _Crack_.

_Crack._

Asshole didn’t give Tony another chance to speak, just kept laying down hit after hit, and Tony could only watch helplessly as Peter continued to suffer. As much as Tony could tell he tried, eventually the stubborn silence faded into grunts which then faded into loud cries of pain.

It seemed to last forever, and Tony could only watch. And that was probably the worst part of it all. If Tony were in Peter’s spot here, he’d guarantee he’d feel exponentially better knowing the kid was out of harms way. After all, that was his job, right? May had declared it his job. He’d encouraged the Spider-Manning, so he had to make sure Peter wasn’t going to “wind up in a ditch somewhere.” A crying May’s words, not his own.

So, yeah, it was his job, and he was failing spectacularly at it—just like everything else. I mean, what else was new? Everybody close to Tony eventually found themselves hurt or worse. Maybe he was cursed. In fact, what was he even thinking taking on being Peter’s mentor? What is there to _mentor_ from him? Tony fucked everything up in new and exciting ways everyday—it was almost like it was a part of who he was now, with how often it happened.

And again, he could only bear witness to his family being hurt, all because of him. Tony wasn’t sure where his mind went from there as he watched on. The motions of everything began to blur into one another. Every once in a while, Asshole took a few steps back to stretch his wrist and wipe the blood off his weapon, but then it was back at it _again and again_ and it didn’t seem to end. Tony wasn’t sure he was even present anymore.

After all, the only thing he could do was stare.

He became so entrapped in this endless cycle of thinking that he didn’t even notice when the whip was stowed away, Peter fell to the floor, and the soldiers began to crowd him. Where did he go wrong to where Peter was putting Tony’s mental health over his own physical wellbeing? He didn’t know, but obviously _somewhere_ , and—

“Where’s your snark now, subject?”

The improper pronoun, off all things, was the one to drag him back. Because, again, that was probably the most horrifying thing of all, looking past the blood and torture.

The current sight certainly wasn’t pretty. At some point, Peter’s shirt had torn completely off leaving his back exposed and littered with blood. Tony couldn’t tell where one cut transitioned to the next, all of them looking like one collective wound. Some were high, near his neck, and others were low, near his backside. Some wrapped around his hips and others underneath his armpits and more snaked down his biceps.

Tony right about lost his stomach then and there, but he didn’t even get the chance to before a soldier was grasping the back of Peter’s hair and shoving him under the water.

It was at that point where Tony well and truly lost himself to the guilt of his mind.

* * *

After another hour or so, they were walked back to their cell. Well, more accurately, _Tony_ walked. Peter didn’t even try, just letting two guards carry him by the arms throughout the halls. Surprisingly enough, the kid was still conscious, but only barely so. Tony could see the physical exhaustion on his face, the fatigue clawing at him and attempting to lure him under.

Tony’s handcuffs were taken off as he was shoved to the floor, and even more shockingly, so were Peter’s. He supposed they knew that Peter wasn’t attempting anything in this state.

As much as Tony just wanted to retreat again and _forget_ and _pretend_ this never happened, he knew he couldn’t just sit around. As the soldiers were starting to leave, one turned around holding a bottle of something, and another set down a bucket of water. The first one launched the object into Tony’s hands and he almost fumbled the catch, but somehow managed to save himself and keep the glass bottle from shattering. Two rags followed, and Tony understood.

The other men left without a word of sympathy. Well, not even a word at all.

Holding the new supplies in his hand, Tony turned around. Peter had taken to positioning himself on his stomach, most likely without any energy to remain standing, or even sitting, and Tony lowered himself next to him.

“You good, kid?” he said quietly, knowing the question would bring no comfort as who could possibly be alright in this situation?

Peter, however, let out a huff of air and said, “I’m absolutely wonderful.”

Tony didn’t comment further. There wasn’t anything to say.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stark,” Peter weakly said all of the sudden.

Tony shifted uncomfortably. “What are you apologizing for?”

“Making the wrong decision,” Peter answered. “I thought it’d be better for the both of us.”

“Not your fault, kid.”

Peter turned his head slightly to look at him, but Tony avoided his gaze. He couldn’t look at him right now, as cruel and horrible as it sounded. He might pass out if he did. Instead, he turned his focus to Peter’s mess of wounds. There were too many count, but he still knew the number: _forty._

“They gave us some disinfectant,” Tony mentioned cautiously, watching the kid’s reaction.

“Hm?” Peter mumbled, and Tony realized his eyes had drifted shut.

“Um… Hydrogen peroxide. Will keep your cuts from getting infected. Should probably do it at some point.”

“Probably,” Peter agreed.

More silence settled over them. Tony didn’t know how else to continue, so he didn’t. Instead, he set to work. Taking one of the rags, he dipped it into the bucket, getting it soaked through, but hesitated. Part of him knew he was about to cause Peter a lot more pain, but it was necessary—right? If they got infected then…then the kid would probably die, and then…they’d never get out of there. _Right?_ His mind was cloudy as he strained to remember what he knew about medical treatment, but he knew he had to do it.

He slowly lowered the rag down.

Peter didn’t even flinch.

Tony looked back at Peter’s face in confusion, and found it completely relaxed for the first time since they’d gotten there; at last, Peter had passed out from the pain, and Tony knew this would be his opportunity to get what he needed to get done without hurting the kid more.

The blood washed off easily, still fresh—some cuts still oozing, in fact, and Tony applied careful pressure to those—and dripped onto the cement floor. The water in the bucket had also turned completely maroon, and after a while the first rag wasn’t washing out anymore. He tossed that one, picked up the second, and began again.

Once he’d cleaned the kid’s back the best he could, he did his best to avoid thinking about the how raw and painful the torn skin looked and grabbed the disinfectant. Again, he was thankful Peter was out, because had he been awake Tony’s not sure he himself would’ve been able to get through it. Even now, his hands were shaking uncontrollably, coated in red, to the point where some of the disinfectant was spilling out onto the floor.

He did his best, and at end of it all, he was satisfied enough. Throwing the wasted washcloths into the near-empty bucket and setting it near the door, he slid himself back to the opposite end of the cage and rested his head on the metal bars.

What a shitshow. He started to bring a hand to his face to run it through his hair, but the blood on it stopped him, an evil reminder of what had transpired. Instead, he let himself drift into a weird place between sleep and consciousness as reminders of the day played on loop behind his eyelids.

Peter took thirty extra lashes so Tony didn’t have to do ten himself.

And it was that thought that refused to leave his brain, no matter how hard Tony tried to banish it away.

* * *

“Mr. Stark?”

The voice brought Tony out of his slumber immediately, and he snapped up to his feet quickly. “Peter?” Tony asked, moving over to the kid’s side and kneeling down.

“Hurts,” Peter bit out.

Tony didn’t know what to do. “I know, kid. Can’t do much about it though. Sorry.”

“No…” Peter said. “Not your fault. S’mine.”

“Not really,” Tony said.

“You’re mad at me.”

“Huh?” Tony backtracked. “Why would you think I’m mad at you?”

Peter let out a grunt. “You yelled at me.”

Oh. Well, shit. Was Tony mad? I mean, kinda, but not like _mad mad_ , he was more frustrated, and even then it wasn’t directed at Peter, not really. He didn’t really think about Peter interpreting it that way.

“I’m not mad, Peter.” Tony sighed. “I just wish you hadn’t done that.”

“Can I be honest, Mr. Stark?”

Tony shrugged. “Of course.”

“Me too. This _really_ hurts.”

They both let out a small chuckle, but the meaning behind it still cast a shadow over the whole conversation.

Peter started to use his elbows to prop himself up a bit more, but Tony gently pushed him back down, admonishing, “I wouldn’t do that.”

“Sorry.”

“Stop apologizing.”

“Sorry.”

There was a moment of silence before they were laughing again, but it was nothing like before when they would both be cracking witty jokes one after another and snorting uncontrollably. Obviously. But Tony couldn’t help but think of those times and miss them. At least he had even gotten Peter to laugh a little bit—a small light in a cavern of darkness. If only for a few seconds, it made him forget. Which was what he needed.

But first, “Pete?”

“Yeah, Mr. Stark?”

“I think having to watch that was one of the worst things I’ve ever been through.” Peter shrunk in on himself a little bit on that, and Tony continued, “It would have much better for the both of us if you had just taken 10 from me. And I need you to understand that. I would rather die than watch that again.”

The tone was extremely somber again, and Peter nodded slowly.

“Yeah…I understand. I’m—” he cut himself off before he could apologize again. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. Well—I did. I just didn’t think it would be that bad. I heard them discussing what they were going to do and at that moment I didn’t really think. It just seemed like the easier answer. And—I mean—it was. The guy—he had set it all up, y’know? He knew that would be what I picked from the start. And I just totally fed into what he had planned, not even stopping to _consider_ what dealing with forty more of those would feel like, for both me and you. It just—I didn’t think. I didn’t. And I regret it.”

Tony listened intently, letting Peter ramble and get what he needed to off his chest. Bottling up everything wasn’t going to help any, so he let the kid vent, and when a few tears dripped down his face Tony didn’t mention it. Peter didn’t either, clearly trying to remain strong and wipe them away.

“Kid, I probably would’ve done the same thing,” Tony admitted after Peter was done. “I mean, I could see the thought process. And at first glance it does seem like the lesser of two evils. So…I get it. I’m sorry for yelling at you earlier.”

“I mean, you had a good reason,” Peter said.

“Eh, not really,” Tony countered. “Yelling wasn’t gonna do nothing except make things worse.”

In a lapse of conversation, Tony took the time to help Peter move himself into a more comfortable position. Still on his back so the wounds wouldn’t be aggravated, but better in the sense that he wasn’t laying in a puddle of blood and water anymore.

“Y’know,” Peter began again, “I wonder what the team is doing right now. And May. You think they’re looking for us?” he asked.

“Why wouldn’t they be?” Tony said.

Peter bit his lip. “I mean…it’s just…we’ve been here for like two days now. Which means they can’t have any solid leads. Which is going to make it incredibly hard for them to find us.”

Tony thought it over. Had it really been that long? Hadn’t felt like it.

“They’re looking. They’ll pick something up eventually. As for May and Pepper? They’ll be okay. They’re both strong, they’ll keep each other together until we can get back.”

“Yeah…” Peter said. “I know.”


	6. Blood and Bones and Broken Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ:
> 
> TW: Gun violence, Minor Character Death, Brief Mention of Suicide
> 
> I did warn you guys, this story was getting dark. Seriously. I mean it. Look at the tags again, reread them, and make sure it's something you're okay with reading. If anything makes you uncomfortable, I have more details on the possible triggers in the end notes. Read safe, please. This story has a happy ending, but to get there we go through a lot of shit. It ain't rainbows and daisies.
> 
> On another note, HELLO!
> 
> I finally have another chapter. Firstly, here's my obligated apology for the wait. Next, I'm really hoping this chapter isn't too OOC. I tried my best to keep it extremely dark, but also believable. It's difficult to take a PG-13 series that is often pretty light-hearted and lead it down a dark path without making it too out of character for Peter especially. Peter goes through some shit this chapter. And for him, it's brutal, so I personally feel his reaction is justified, but let me know in the comments.
> 
> Love you all. To the American peeps, happy Thanksgiving! I'm thankful for all of you. And for the non-American peeps, happy regular Thursday anyway! <3

It took a while before something interesting actually happened.

After a while, they fell into a sort of routine. It certainly wasn’t a fun one, but they didn’t necessarily have a choice. They’d wake up to brigade of soldiers swarming their cell, stealing them out of their rest, and be dragged—quite unmercifully, might Peter add—to the same old torture room, and then endure what was in store for them that day.

They didn’t get breakfast. Instead, Peter began his mornings with waterboarding, knives, and screaming, while Tony was forced to watch. Peter hated coffee with a burning passion, but he would much prefer to be at home drinking that than go through this wake-up routine.

After an hour or two—or whenever Asshole (Mr. Stark’s name, not his—he would like to think he’d be much more creative coming up with something, but his mind is typically a muddy mess and he hasn’t bothered to imagine a new title) gets bored, they’d be returned to their prison to recuperate from their injuries. Though, mostly it was Mr. Stark tending to Peter, and Peter biting on a rag to keep himself from yelling from the pain. Semantics, whatever.

Then, about an hour from that, they’d get their first meal. Honestly, it was probably the most exciting part of their schedule—seeing just what horseshit their capturers could manufacture and call food. Sometimes it was a lumpy soup, other times moldy bread. Point of the matter was that it was disgusting and hardly sated Peter’s burning metabolism. Mr. Stark had tried to give him his share once, and that had gotten Peter backhanded a few times across the face, so they’d dropped that idea quickly.

However, without proper nutrition Peter had slowly been weakening, and much to their captor’s dismay, that wasn’t necessarily what they wanted. Well—Peter wasn’t totally sure _what_ they wanted, but when Peter had gotten to the point of not having enough energy to scream, they’d finally listened to what Mr. Stark’s been reiterating for the past week (or, at least, what felt like a week). That Peter needed thrice the calories of a normal human, and that these subpar meals were killing him, not to mention slowing down his healing abilities.

So, thereafter Peter began receiving soup, bread, _and_ a wilting salad. A king’s meal if you ask him. But it was hard to eat his meals while Mr. Stark was stuck with the same old crap. Besides, after his morning sessions with Asshole he typically wasn’t that hungry anyway, the appetite literally carved out of him. He forced himself to eat, though, because it would frustrate Mr. Stark if he didn’t, and they were already dealing with enough as it was.

So, yeah. His life sucked right now.

No word from the team.

No sign of rescue.

Just a constant swirl of blood and sweat and inhumane treatment.

They’d completely stopped saying his name as Peter. It was either _it_ or _mutant_ or _subject._ Peter tried not to let it bother him. He really did. Yet all the words did was drag him back to when he was fourteen and had first gotten bit, and the swirl of emotions that came with it. That he was a freak, a weirdo. But still, he ignored it to the best of his ability and strived to counter it with slinging remarks back at his handlers.

Handlers.

That was another thing. He’d gotten new ones—that was what Asshole called them. No names were mentioned. Ever. The only one spoken was Declan’s. Kind of put a damper in his ability to come up with good quips, to be honest. He wondered what happened to Tristan and Rick.

Nevertheless, the point of the matter is, that Peter was definitely not ready for something new this morning, after so much strict scheduling and repeats over and over. He figured they were trying to wear him down for something—the torture in and of itself was not enough to break Spider-Man, and without a doubt they’d figured that out well enough already—so while he wasn’t ready…he kind of was. Did that make sense?

He wasn’t ready for _this specifically_ , waking up the soldiers that would drag him to his torture sessions, instead dragging a new figure into their cell.

Peter looked up from his position on his floor, with one arm stretched out in a vibranium cuff keeping him connected to the cage, and squinted against the light. Tony did the same opposite him, unchained though. The soldiers opened the door and ruthlessly tossed the figure to the ground. Whoever it was obviously was unconscious as they made no noise upon landing, and Peter tried calling after the soldiers, “What, no introduction?” but was met with the door slamming back shut.

“Mr. Stark?” he tried instead.

Mr. Stark shifted to his knees. “Already on it, kid.”

Peter looked on, body aching as yesterday’s memories made themselves corporeal on his body, as Mr. Stark turned the person over.

“Holy shit—is that…?” Peter trailed off.

“Yeah,” Mr. Stark said. “He’s just a kid.”

The boy on the floor looked no older than 16. He had messy blond hair, strewed about and matted with blood from an invisible head injury, and a black eye to accompany it. Probably wasn’t older, if not the same age, as Peter.

“Well things just got a lot more interesting,” Peter commented.

* * *

Peter watched as Mr. Stark tended to the boy’s wound on his head. Blunt trauma, he told him, and Peter knew from experience that head injuries tended to bleed a lot, so they’d concluded he’d be fine enough. What he was here for, though, was the unnerving part.

After about an hour, the boy began to stir. The first thing he did was leap off the ground and back into a corner of the cage, and Peter watched with interest. He wanted to say something, but Mr. Stark was beating him to it.

Mr. Stark retreated with his hands up, startled. “Hey, we’re not here to hurt you.”

“Who the—”

“Peter,” Peter supplied helpfully, and raised a hand. “Tony Stark.” He pointed to Mr. Stark.

“Where—”

“Welcome to hell,” Peter said, smiling. Then, he realized he was probably being too sarcastic for having an array of angry cuts across his face and a bloody nose and decided to dial it down. The other kid was hella scared. Peter was just tired of everything, on the other hand.

“Peter,” Mr. Stark warned.

“Yeah, sorry,” Peter apologized. “This place isn’t…quite so bad. Who are you?”

The boy was still pressed against the corner of the cage, brown eyes tracking his and Mr. Stark’s every movement. He didn’t say anything.

“Okay, okay, let’s restart,” Peter suggested. “Hi. My name’s Peter. That’s Tony Stark. We seem to all be kidnapped, but lucky for you they like to pick on me the most, so again, I apologize—I’m still in the mindset of trying to antagonize them. What’s…uh…what’s your name?”

The boy relaxed slightly, but still remained alert. “Adam,” he said in a small voice.

“How old are you Adam?” Mr. Stark asked.

“17. Where’s my sister?”

“Your sister?” Peter asked, furrowing his brows. “You’re the only new person we’ve seen here in a while.”

“Lacie—I was walking her home from school,” Adam said. He looked panicked again and started walking around the corners of the cage. “Where—”

“I don’t know,” Peter admitted. He was starting to feel bad about the rough introduction, which was entirely his fault, but after the week he’s been through he’s a little irritable. Sue him. “Haven’t seen her.”

“Are you actually _the_ Tony Stark?” Adam asked after circling three times around the cage and finding a corner to sit down in.

Mr. Stark nodded.

“They’re looking for you.”

“They are?” Peter asked, perking up. That was the first piece of information they’d gotten from the outside world since they’d been brought here.

Mr. Stark sighed. “Told you, kid. Do they have any leads?”

Adam shook his head. “No. They’re still using a hotline to see if they can gather tips. But—but they will, right? I need to find my sister.” He stood up again.

Peter watched as Mr. Stark looked at him with sadness. “They will, but it might be a while. And there’s no way out of this cage, so it’d probably be better to just sit down for a bit and rest. Trust me, we’ve looked. The only person capable of getting us out is currently chained to it right now.”

Peter cocked his head, and then realized what Mr. Stark was asking of him. Adam snapped his gaze to Peter.

He sighed. “Peter Parker, also known as Spider-Man, hello. I’m 16. Like Star Wars.” _Give the kid someone to relate to in order to make him feel not as alone._

“Spider—?”

“Yeah.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve been kidnapped with Iron Man and Spider-Man.”

“Yeah, kinda.”

Adam sat back down, but this time Peter presumed it was from shock. After a moment, he spoke again. “I was walking Lacie home from school, and they came out of nowhere. Shoved us into the back of a van. I hit one, but I think he knocked me out after that.”

Mr. Stark nodded. “Yeah, you had a nasty head injury. Doesn’t seem like you have a concussion though.”

They lapsed into silence.

Peter felt awful. These people were cruel enough to bring two innocent kids into this without remorse, and Peter feared for what would happen in the future. Were they here for leverage? Would Peter really resist and let some random kids die?

The scary thing was he already knew the answer. No, no he wouldn’t. He’d just met the kid but he wasn’t selfish enough to let his resistance get him hurt—or killed.

Adam spoke up again. “What do they want? These…people?”

Peter and Mr. Stark looked at each other, but Mr. Stark answered. “Peter. They want Peter to…basically become their weapon. With his abilities, he could get them into some of the most secure government facilities.”

“Oh god.”

Peter laughed humorlessly. “They know exactly what strings to pull, too.”

“What?”

“Why do you think you’re here?” Peter asked, and while the words sounded condescending, he tried his best to make them seem as gentle as possible. “They’ve been beating me, cutting me, whipping me, drowning me for the past week. Now they introduce you? You’re leverage. They know I won’t let you get hurt.”

Adam’s forehead creased in confusion. “Well, doing what they ask doesn’t really seem like an option.”

“I’m not going to get you, or Mr. Stark, killed. Believe me, we’re lucky to have gotten as far as we have,” Peter said. “I’ve been fighting for the past week. Maybe it’s time for me to… I don’t know.”

“Peter,” Mr. Stark said. “No. This is bigger than us.”

“You’re seriously—”

“No,” Adam jumped in. “It’s okay. As long as you keep my sister safe, I don’t care what happens to me. She’s only 10. She doesn’t deserve this.”

Peter quieted. “10?” he asked and looked at Mr. Stark.

“Those fucks…” Mr. Stark exclaimed.

The atmosphere was heavy after that. After a while they got their meals—Adam’s identical to Mr. Stark’s, and Peter’s the normal.

“I have a heightened metabolism,” Peter explained as they ate, after Adam asked about his extra food. That spiraled the conversation into a discussion about Peter’s spider abilities, and Peter learned Adam was in fact a very smart kid.

He was apparently just starting his senior year and had never made anything less than the principle’s honor roll. A testament to how much they were alike. Peter almost was starting to think choosing Adam was not some random move on Declan’s part. Everything Declan did had a motive—and this was one of them.

His sister, Lacie, was just starting the 5th grade. She did dance. He did soccer. Her favorite movie was Disney’s Tangled, and Adam had gotten first place in the statewide science fair this past year. In turn, Mr. Stark told stories of his adventures of Iron Man, and Peter, the adventures of his patrols. Adam listened intently to each one.

The only times they were interrupted was when they were brought food, and when Mr. Stark was handed the antiseptic to treat Peter’s wounds. Things got a little grim as Peter tried to hold back his cries of pain as Mr. Stark used the rag to scrub the dried blood off his face. They hadn’t given any to him last night, and at the time they’d wondered why—but now they knew they’d just wanted to keep them in suspense for Adam’s arrival. Peter had to admit they had a flair for dramatics sometimes.

Adam looked on as Mr. Stark worked, and eventually asked the inevitable: “What did they do to you?”

Peter looked over, then motioned for Mr. Stark to step back and stop for the moment. “What, yesterday? Or just in general?”

Adam paled. “I—I don’t know…yesterday?”

Peter bit his lip, but stopped quickly as he was forced to remember the cut on it. “Ah, yesterday it was knives. They kind of like to circulate what they do, so it’s not the same thing every morning. Keeps me guessing. Did some artwork on my face, then forced me underwater to feel the burn. Both on my face and in my lungs. So…yeah they can get creative sometimes when they feel like it.”

Adam was quiet. It was then that Peter noticed the tears slipping down his face, and he went to say something, but stopped. What could he say? Maybe he could’ve been a little less graphic in describing but what happened, but honestly, he’d become desensitized to it after being on the receiving end for days on end.

“Do—do you think they’re doing that to my sister right now?”

Yeah. He definitely could’ve been more graceful in explaining things.

But there was one thing he was sure of. “No.”

“How do you know?”

“Because they’re trying to break me, Adam. All that would do is piss me off, and they don’t want me pissed off. They want me _broken_.”

Adam let out a breath of what Peter could only assume was relief. “I’m sorry you’re going through this,” he said.

“I’m sorry you were brought into this mess. If I could get us out, I would.”

“I know,” Adam said. “I know.”

Soon, the light faded to dark, and Peter listened to both his mentor’s and his new friend’s breaths even out into that of sleep’s.

He couldn’t sleep, though.

Something was wrong. He could feel it.

Because this was the first day that he’d been given a break.

Where he hadn’t been tortured.

Where he’d been able to relax.

And he knew that wouldn’t last for long.

* * *

It didn’t last for long.

The next morning Peter and Adam were roughly dragged to the same room Peter had, indeed, gotten to know very well. Mr. Stark was left behind, against his desperate protests. Peter could see his dried blood still staining the walls and floor, but by now he’d gotten used to it. He could see it made Adam freak out though, and Peter gave him his best advice: just let them do what they wanted. Cooperate, and they might get out of this okay.

What surprised Peter the most, though, was after they’d forced Peter against the back wall and Adam to the center of the room (also handcuffed), was when Declan stepped in the room.

Nice of him to finally make an appearance, Peter wanted to say, but he held his tongue. There was collateral now; it wasn’t just Mr. Stark and Peter anymore, there were innocents he had to keep safe.

Soldiers filed in behind Declan and lined the walls, guns at the ready. Declan, wearing his suit, seemed to savor the sight. He looked at the two of them, then smiled.

“Good to see you again, subject.”

Peter didn’t say anything.

“You’re awfully quiet now, aren’t you?”

Nothing.

“Maybe this will loosen you up.”

He made a motion with his hand, and two soldiers left the room. When they came back, there was a young girl walking between them, and Peter almost wanted to cry.

No doubt, this was Lacie, by Adam’s reaction. He’d tried to get to his feet, but had been pushed back to his knees by another soldier and held there.

She seemed relatively unharmed. Nothing obvious, at least, that Peter could make out. She was still in her school uniform, hair in a messy ponytail, and skirt a little ruffled. But otherwise…she was okay, and Peter could work with okay. She shouldn’t even be here in the first place, though, and that was what made Peter want to murder every soldier in this room—all six of them.

“Let them go,” Peter said, voice cracking. “I’ll—I’ll do what you want. Just don’t hurt them.”

Declan chuckled. “ _I’m_ not going to hurt them.”

Declan walked past the two and came to a stop in front of Peter, and Peter made sure he saw the anger in his eyes. Because Peter was pissed.

But then, Declan took out a gun, and before Peter could stop him the cuffs were unlocked, the gun had been passed off to the solder on his right, and he was walking back out of the room.

“You will. Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to walk out of this room for one minute. And by the time I come back, one of them is going to be lying dead on the ground.”

Peter looked up in shock. “What…?”

“You heard me.”

Peter flinched at the door shutting. The soldier to his right offered Peter the gun, but he didn’t take it. What the fuck was happening?

He knew what was happening.

Declan was forcing him to choose. This was happening too fast; his mind could barely keep up with anything.

“Peter, please…” Adam said weakly.

“Ads, what’s happening?” Lacie asked. She was crying now.

And Peter…Peter was frozen. Declan wanted him to choose. Declan…wanted him to choose?

Adam or Lacie.

Lacie or Adam.

Declan wanted him to play executioner, but Peter was no executioner. Peter rescued cats out of trees; he helped old ladies cross the street; he stopped the random mugging on the streets of New York. He didn’t aim to kill. He _never_ aimed to kill, even his worst enemies. He thoroughly believed that death was not the solution to anything. There was _always a way._

 _“Thirty seconds,”_ a soldier called.

There was always a way.

“Peter…you have to. You promised me,” Adam begged. “You said you would keep her safe. Please do that.”

Peter could feel the tears escaping down his face now. “No…”

“ _Ten seconds.”_

In a moment, Peter made up his mind. They were after Peter. Peter was the reason they were in danger right now. Maybe…if you take Peter out of the equation, they’d be okay.

In a second, he’d snatched the gun from the soldier and brought it to his own head. But, before he could pull the trigger the soldier to his right had kicked the back of his legs, upsetting his aim and the gun fired into the ceiling. The soldiers swarmed him, and Peter kicked and fought as they’d grabbed his arms and began forcing him out of the room. Two had stayed behind though, and Peter realized as they raised their guns what was going to happen.

“No!” he cried and shoved the soldiers off of him.

“Peter!” Adam shrieked.

_Bang._

The shots were synchronized. And Peter…Peter screamed. Red filled his vision. Lacie and Adam hit the floor, and at that moment, Peter knew he lost himself.

Ripping himself away from the soldiers who were trying to contain him, he charged at the ones who held hot guns that had just spit out hot metal. The first fist connected with the one who’d shot Lacie. He wasn’t holding back anything—these people, they had been indifferent to anything that had happened. They had been the ones who had pulled the trigger. So when the first punch was thrown, Peter didn’t even blink when he heard the snap of the neck from the force.

When Peter was Spider-Man, he always had to control his punches. Too hard and he could kill someone in an instant. It took a lot of practice, but eventually he’d learned just exactly how much he needed to hold back. But now? Here? Control? Didn’t know her.

The other five mercenaries raised their guns, but Peter had something they didn’t. His senses. In a moment he’d leapt on top of the ceiling. Spending hours in this room at the mercy of his captors had allowed him to study it. There was just a single fluorescent light on the ceiling—his target. He smashed the glass with his fist and took out the lights.

From there, it was almost too easy.

He moved swiftly, quietly. They couldn’t shoot an invisible target. Listening to their heartbeats Peter made his moves one by one, and in the end, it was silent. No heartbeats. Not even Lacie and Adam’s.

For a moment Peter sat there and caught his breath. Then, the reality of what he’d just done set in.

 _Holy fuck_.

The shock slammed into him at once.

_Holy fuck._

_He had just killed them._

He stumbled back until he hit a wall and let his body slide down it. Raising his hands, he looked at them in horror. He had just…

Had he…

_What the fuck._

But they’d killed—they’d killed an innocent 10-year-old. An innocent brother and an innocent sister and someone’s son and someone’s daughter and someone’s best friends and someone’s niece and nephew. They’d stripped their right to life, so it was justified he did the same to them…right?

Even as he ran it over in his head he knew it was wrong. It was all wrong. All the pent-up anger from the week, from the beatings to the waterboarding…watching the people who he was supposed to protect be shot unforgivingly in the face—

What had he done?

He was no better.

He couldn’t breathe. He _couldn’t breathe._ White spots danced in his vision. On repeat, he felt the punch that snapped the neck of the first soldier. _Soldiers—_ they were just following orders. No, but they were bad. They weren’t robots, they could think for themselves, and they _thought_ they could shoot two kids and get away with it.

Peter couldn’t breathe.

What was wrong with him?

After so much…after trying to see the good in people…after trying to preserve that bit of innocence— _people didn’t always need to die._

_There was always a way._

But was there?

He must have blacked out for a moment, because the next thing he knew he was draped between two people, and then thrown into somebody’s arms. But he knew whose arms.

How could he…how could he live with himself?

“Peter— _Peter!_ ” He distantly heard Mr. Stark calling his name, but it was like he was underneath water.

“They killed them,” Peter muttered absently. “They _killed them._ ”

He could feel Mr. Stark’s hand running through his hair, rubbing soothing circles on his back as the tears streamed down his face.

“ _They killed them._ So I killed them.”

The hand stopped.

“Peter?”

“I killed them,” Peter said again. The words tasted like poison on his tongue. “I don’t—”

“Peter please talk to me.”

“They’re all dead.”

He closed his eyes.

“They’re all dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More details on TWs:
> 
> \- 2 children are introduced, and Peter is forced to choose to kill one. He tries to kill himself instead, but fails, and watches as the other two kids are killed in front of him. He then goes on to kill their murderers.


	7. Cruel, Cruel, Cruel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, I was on-time! A week update!
> 
> I'm proud of me. Are you proud of me? :) Nah, I need to work harder to make this a regular thing. I'll try. It was nice sitting by the fireplace tonight and writing. 
> 
> Thanks for your comments last chapter. They made my day and definitely gave me some motivation I needed. <3 You guys rock.
> 
> Only note I have for this chapter: Remember...it does NOT have the tag of MCD. No, you're not crazy. Trust me.

Tony didn’t know how long he sat there, collapsed on the floor, holding a sobbing Peter.

The time didn’t really matter, though—that wasn’t what was important. His chest tightened as the kid’s body shook and Tony didn’t know what else to do. So he just held him close, whispered reassurances that he couldn’t guarantee were true, and tried to console him.

Tony wasn’t sure what had happened. Well, he had an idea to some extent, sure. Adam (and Lacie?) were probably dead. That alone put a heavy weight in his gut; they were just more people he failed to save, and not to mention, it also proved that these people were not above killing children to get what they want.

The other thing was the second half of what Peter said.

Tony wasn’t sure who Peter killed, but holy shit did he never think he would hear those words come out of the kid’s mouth. And it shriveled Tony up inside, because it meant that these people were getting to them, and therefore slowly getting what they want, which was the absolute worst-case scenario. So the _who_ wasn’t the question; Tony knew, without a single doubt, that Peter did what he had to, or at least what he was coerced to do.

This in and of itself was an issue of course, but not _the_ issue. _The_ issue was how this would affect Peter moving on, and how vulnerable this made him to Declan and his plans. But…alas, a problem for another time.

For now, he kneeled there, legs becoming numb from the uncomfortable position, and held the kid. Held him as he broke down completely—a kid he’d known to be so sarcastic and happy and a chatterbox, shattering.

Tony let him get it all out. He didn’t say a word, he didn’t push. Peter would tell him when he was ready, and the kid already had enough pressure on him, so… he waited. He waited, and held him, and warily watched the door to make sure they weren’t going to strip the poor kid away again in this state.

He couldn’t let that happen.

But thankfully, they didn’t come.

After about an hour or two, Peter’s tears faded away and sleep leaked into the space they left. He knew all too well the fatigue that came after things like panic attacks and the headaches and the numbness in your body. So again, he didn’t complain as he felt Peter shivering in his arms from the slight cold and letting the realm of unconsciousness take him under. It was probably for the better, anyway.

Tony didn’t sleep. He couldn’t, the worry that they would come again making his mind race a mile a minute and the overwhelming need to make sure that Peter stayed safe keeping him more awake than the four cups of coffee he would normally drink. So he sat there and thought, and thought, because that’s all he could do.

At least people were looking for them. He knew that before, of course, never had a doubt like Peter did. But the confirmation was still nice. He’d wished it been kept a little more under wraps, but obviously the public had caught wind of his disappearance, and the media were piranhas. Any small thing they could get their scrawny hands on, _especially_ stuff that involved his life, was easy money for them.

Either way, that meant help would have to come soon. Right? Well, that’s what one would think—that’s what they’ve been thinking for the past week. So maybe his expectations were a bit skewed.

If only he’d been wearing his gauntlet the night they were taken.

  
If only he’d been able to call a suit and get them out of this situation.

A lot of if only’s and no certainties. But there was nothing Tony could do about it right now, so there wasn’t necessarily a point in turning it over in his mind until his brain turned to mush.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, but eventually, he felt Peter stir in his arms. Gently, he tapped the kid’s shoulder, and before he knew it his wrist had been grabbed, pulled, and a great force had twisted him over onto his back, an arm pressing down on his throat. If he hadn’t been so startled he might’ve complimented the kid.

Then, a small: “ _Oh my god.”_

The arm came off his throat quickly and Peter scurried off of him until he was backed into the corner of the cage. “I’m sorry—I didn’t—they were hitting me and—”

Tony made the connections pretty quick. “Hey, kid, it’s okay. Just a nightmare.”

“I—”

“You did nothing. It’s already forgotten, see?”

“But I—”

“Dunno what you’re talking about.”

“Mr. Stark!” Peter exclaimed. “I just _hit you_. That is _not_ nothing.”

God, this kid was going to be the end of him. He let out a weary sigh, and then motioned with his hand for Peter to come closer. When he didn’t, Tony instead took the liberty to get up and walk next to him, thankful the kid seemed to get the hint that they were both stuck in here and that he wouldn’t be able to elude Tony in a 30x30 box.

They absolutely needed a very long, overdue conversation.

Peter had his head in his hands, and Tony again felt the jarring juxtaposition of the Peter at the start of the week and the Peter he was seeing now. His kid was still there—he did know that. But he was buried under a lot of pain and hurt and Tony knew because he’d been there himself at one point. So, he started with the only way he knew how.

“I still have nightmares about my time in Afghanistan.”

Tony was looking at the floor now, but he could see Peter’s head raise slightly in his peripherals at that.

“I still wake up freaked out, thinking I’m there. I’ve come to swinging before. Thankfully never when I’ve been with Pepper, but… it’s a normal response.”

Peter shifted a bit. “I know. Like—I know that. It’s logical, but actually _doing_ it yourself is…it’s rough. And—and it’s not the same for me, y’know? I could wake up and not be aware of myself and use all of my strength and not even realize it.”

Tony thought about it for a moment. Kid had a point, he must admit, and he couldn’t imagine having to feel the weight of that extra burden. But still… “You didn’t hurt me.”

“This time.”

“No,” Tony continued. “I feel like if you were going to do that at any time, now would’ve been it. You may not be aware completely of what you’re doing, but some part of you still knows it’s me.”

“That’s not what happened yest—” Peter stopped himself abruptly.

Tony perused him. Peter looked like he was barely holding back tears again. Softly, Tony said, “You know I need to know what happened, right? Not…not everything if you’re not comfortable…but at least…generally.”

Peter nodded and took in a shaky breath. Tony went to put an arm around him, but hesitated for a moment just to be sure. When Peter didn’t flinch or make a move to get away, he continued.

It took a few moments, but Peter eventually started. “He dragged us into a room. Lacie was there. She—she looked so scared. They were both scared. And he handed me a gun and told me to pick—pick one to kill. And I couldn’t—you know, I just I couldn’t—I couldn’t make that choice. Like, they’re asking me to shoot an innocent kid, y’know?

“So I tried—and I don’t even know why I tried it, I’ve never even held a gun before and it probably wouldn’t’ve fixed anything anyway—but I tried to turn it on myself. The soldiers were right there, and they stopped me and—they started dragging me away and they—they…

“They shot them,” Peter finished quietly. “They just shot them. Like they weren’t kids. Like they weren’t people. Just pawns. And I just…I got so _mad_ … I couldn’t _not_ do anything… so I… I—”

He pauses, and Tony decides to stop Peter there by rubbing his shoulder. He’s heard enough, he doesn’t need Peter to relive anything else from that night. There’s a lot to unpack from those statements. He _himself_ has heard enough.

But for now, Tony doesn’t know how to make things right. He’s an inventor, he’s smart, he went to MIT at the age of 15—he should be able to fix these types of things. But he can’t pretend he’d been through what Peter had, not like this. Tony has dealt with some fair shares of shit but this… this was different. This was pure torture and manipulation, done by evil people with nothing but ill intentions.

So he says the only thing he can think of. “It’s not your fault.” And he knows it won’t help, he _knows_ because he’s been there and has had that told to him over and over but he needs to figure out how to help the kid somehow. It isn’t Peter’s fault, but _Peter_ will never believe it’s not Peter’s fault—Tony knows.

“I should’ve done something.”

“Like?” Tony asked.

“I don’t know.”

Tony shook his head. “They were going to get what they wanted one way or another.”

Peter made a sound of disagreement. “Why would they bring them here, and not even try and keep them for leverage? That’s what I thought was going to happen, that’s what I told Adam was going to happen, and it _would have worked._ So why didn’t they do it? They could’ve gotten anything out of me. But they didn’t.”

Tony hated how the answer came to him so easily. How disgusted with himself he even felt just thinking about it. But after surrounding yourself with criminals and masterminds who deliberately start shit just to get at you, you start to learn to think like them, consciously or not.

“It was never for leverage,” Tony said. “They never planned on keeping those kids alive, Pete. You need to understand that. It’s not fair—it’s not right, but it’s not your fault either. The whole purpose was to make you doubt what you know. You said you figured it was for leverage, right? That’s what they wanted you to think. But they demonstrated last night that you don’t know anything about them. You can’t predict them, and as awful as it is, neither you nor I are in control here.”

“So…” Peter said carefully, “they were just there to die? They were there because of me.”

“Nothing _you_ did caused them to land in that position.”

“But it was still because of me.”

“Peter—”

“Is it bad I don’t regret killing them?” Peter asked suddenly, and Tony recoiled a little at the exclamation. He figured Peter was talking about the soldiers in the room with him—the ones who’d shot Adam and Lacie; he’d never said it outright, but Tony wasn’t stupid.

“Like I do,” Peter carried on, “kind of. I did at first. I was horrified at myself. But I find it hard to find sympathy for them now. I’m trying, I really am. They had their own families. But so did Lacie, and Adam. And I just… I can’t stop feeling my hands on their necks, the punches I didn’t hold back on… I can’t stop hearing the silence after I did it.”

Tony chose his next words delicately. “It’s not bad,” he admitted. “Not inherently. Not given these circumstances. You just can’t let it define you, you know? Here, in this place, nobody will fault you for it but yourself. I don’t. And that’s where it gets dangerous, because sometimes our worst enemies are our own minds. And Pete, can I be honest with you?”

Peter nodded. “Always.”

Tony drew in a breath. “I think… I think you did exactly what they wanted you to. I think Declan wanted you to kill them.”

Peter looked up at him sharply. Then, the realization set in as the gears all fell into place, and Peter brought a hand to his face in dismay. “It’s all a game to him,” he said hollowly.

“All a game,” Tony echoed. “So no. I don’t think it’s a bad thing. But it’s also what Declan wants. You’ve never been a killer before Peter, and he’s trying to mold you into one.”

He felt Peter stiffen in his arms. For a moment, Tony thought it was because of Declan’s intentions, but then Peter spoke. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that, Mr. Stark,” Peter said grimly.

“About what?”

“That I’ve never been a killer before.”

Tony furrowed his eyebrows. “Why would you think that? In all of the time that I’ve known you—”

“Do you know the reason I became Spider-Man?” Peter interrupted and asked. Tony fell quiet and ran the question over in his head. “I mean, you stalked me for a bit before you met me so I would figure you would.” A dry laugh.

Did he actually know the reason Peter became Spider-Man? The more he thought about it the more he realized that, no, he didn’t _actually_ know the reason Peter did what he did. He knew that Peter’s parents had died when he super young, and his uncle had passed away not too long ago. Mugging. The kid had a shitty hand dealt to him.

Tony also remembered what he’d said when they’d first met: that if you didn’t help when you could, whatever happened next was your fault. At the time, it seemed like such a heavy statement for a teen, and had felt closer to what someone who’d been hardened by life for decades would wisely say. It still did.

But other than that, he didn’t know if there was anything else to that. He’d never pried, and the kid had never shared. There’d not really been any occasion to anyway until now, Tony had felt.

Peter must’ve taken his lack of answer as a no, because then he continued, “I’d had a fight with my uncle. Something dumb, too. And I’d run off to cool down for a bit, like—I just needed some space. I didn’t think—didn’t think he’d follow me.

“But then I started feeling bad. So I went to the store to get some groceries we’d needed to make up for it. Then, a guy walked in. He had a gun, and he’d went to rob the store owner. And—god, I didn’t feel the need to stop it. It wasn’t my problem. But in letting him go, in letting him roam free on the streets and make his getaway, I also let him shoot an innocent person when they’d tried to stop him.

“The gunshot had me curious. So I’d followed, and I’d… I don’t know. My Uncle Ben was there. Just… laying on the floor.”

Peter paused for a moment. There was a harrowing lack of emotion on his face, Tony noticed; to be honest, Tony was probably showing more than Peter was right now, and Peter was talking about his own life. Tony, on the other hand, understood. Understood where the words came from, and how they became Peter’s origin.

This, Tony could relate to. Watching your parents die? It wasn’t something one just got over quickly. It took therapy, it took time, it took many of the bright aspects of your life away. Tony wanted to say it wasn’t Peter’s fault again, because it wasn’t. But he didn’t want to sound like a disk stuck on repeat. Again, they weren’t true words of comfort; they were an easy placebo for people to use to sound like they understand. And while true, Tony said them earlier, and he _does_ care, he just doesn’t know how to help.

“A year later, not too long before the Vulture incident, I saw him,” Peter said. “Mugging someone else.” Tony closed his eyes, knowing where this story was going.

“I got so mad. And I almost—I almost did it. I kept throwing punches.”

Peter huffed a breath. “But I didn’t. I should’ve but I didn’t. Because it’s not my job to do that, it’s my job to make sure people stay safe and give them _proper_ justice. I’m not a vigilante. I’m a hero. There’s a difference. But I definitely had the thought to. So I wouldn’t say that, Mr. Stark.”

Tony shook his head. “I’m sorry, kid.” And he was, he really was. He wished Peter could have a normal life with normal circumstances, but life was a shit thing with shit morals and found it hilarious to strip kids of their childhood.

Sometimes Tony wished Peter wasn’t Spider-Man. And he feels guilty for it, because he knows how much Spider-Man means to Peter—how Spider-Man _is_ Peter, just like Iron Man _is_ Tony Stark. But if that spider hadn’t bit the kid then he might just be happier. Wouldn’t have to face death everyday in its wicked face and smile.

But life isn’t like that.

One thing Tony did know, though, was: “Peter, despite what happened last night, you’re not a killer. Don’t let them make you think you are, okay? What separates you from them is you were forced into this. They do it because they can. Okay? The fact you didn’t kill your uncle’s murderer is proof enough of that.”

Peter gave a tight smile. “Thanks Mr. Stark.” It was gone as soon as it appeared, though. “I’m scared,” Peter admitted sadly. “I want to go home.”

Tony hung his head. “Me too, kid. Me too.”

The conversation fizzled away into a strange place between silence and small-talk. They ate their meals without a word, and Tony noticed this was the second day in a row they hadn’t taken Peter away. It was strange. If they were trying to make him into something else—a weapon—why would they let Tony talk him down? Tony couldn’t figure that one out. Unpredictable assholes.

Right before they were settling down for rest, Peter lifted his head and asked a final, heart-wrenching question. “When we get out of here…” he said, voice shaking, “we need to find their parents.”

It took Tony a moment before he realized the kid was talking about Adam and Lacie’s.

“They deserve to know what happened.”

Tony held Peter closer to him. “Of course,” he said somberly, and from there they drifted off to sleep.

Tony awoke to a bang, and not the I-just-slammed-a-door-closed bang, more the holy shit that-thing-just-exploded type bang. He jumped off the ground, almost literally, and Peter hurried off of him.

Tony looked at Peter, eyes wide. “What was that?”

Peter looked just as confused as him. “I don’t know. Let me listen.” The kid closed his eyes in concentration, and Tony waited wearily. Did he dare hope…?

“Oh my god…” Peter breathed.

“What?” Tony prompted.

Peter turned to him, a grin on his face. “I can hear thrusters,” he said excitedly. “ _Actual_ thrusters.”

And Tony, for the first time since they got here, let himself collapse to the floor in joy instead of pure exhaustion. It was a strange feeling, actually—a feeling that had become so foreign after so much time away from it. Relief. He could breathe clearly again, he could _breathe_. No more torture, no more having to stress about what condition Peter would be in when they threw him back to the cell (even though his condition was always more-or-less the same: brutally injured and beaten.)

They could get out of this hellhole, they could go back to what it was like before, they could never have to see any of these soldiers or Declan’s smug face again. And he would be spending extra time with Peter, that was for sure—you didn’t get held captive and tortured for a week just to go back to only meeting once a week.

Peter could roam the streets again and help old ladies; Tony could _fly_. It’d been so long since he’d been in the sky, been able to touch the clouds and soar freely.

Rhodey was here. He would get them out of this. But first…

Tony looked at the kid with a smile and sat up. “Hey Pete?”

“Yeah?”

“Think now would be a good time to bend these bars and get us the fuck out of here?”

Peter, once hearing his words, gave a quick, “Fucking finally,” and ran over to one of the sides of the cage. Without hesitation, he gripped them with both hands and easily strained them apart from each other, far enough to where both he and Tony could slip through. This time, they didn’t have to worry about being punished for trying to escape. They could _actually_ get out.

And that they did. Tony motioned for Peter to go first, and he followed behind. Once they were out, Tony stopped and looked back at their cell.

“Must say, I’m not going to miss this place,” he commented lightly.

Peter came to a stand beside him. “What, are you forgetting all the fond memories that happened in there? I mean the meals we got were pristine…the beds…yeah cement is _definitely_ comfortable. 10/10 would recommend again. And room service? When they broke my wrist, it was definitely five-star worthy.”

Tony gave a chuckle, then sobered. “In all seriousness… Fuck this place. You’re sure this isn’t a trap or anything? Another mind-game?”

He watched as Peter listened again. “I’m sure,” he confirmed after a moment. I can’t hear anything right outside the door,” he said, walking over to the heavily damaged exit. They’d never bothered to fix it after Peter kicked it open in his first escape attempt, so the padlock still hung off its latches and the hinges were slightly skewed. “And,” Peter continued, “it’s definitely Rhodey. I can tell, trust me. Not to mention the gunshots.”

“Gunshots?” Tony asked. He couldn’t hear anything.

“Yeah,” Peter said. “Suppressed or something,” he added. “That’s what they shot me with before.”

Tony frowned. “Let’s hurry up. I want a piece of them myself.”

Peter took that as his cue to open the door. Outside, they met the maze of hallways and doors that they’d both seen before. Peter probably moreso than Tony, but neither knew their way around, so it was simply going to be a guessing game and trying to find the source of the gunshots.

Just then, and right on time, the ground shook again from the sound of another massive explosion. Instantly, Tony took off to the right, and Peter followed. It took a few minutes of walking, but with the increasing sounds of the firefight before them, it wasn’t too terribly hard to navigate.

They walked to the end of another corridor, where a pair of double-doors awaited them, and Tony was about to ask Peter if he wanted to do the honors when the teen took the liberty upon himself and opened them quickly, shoving Tony in front. “Move!” he yelled, and Tony did without a second thought. He trusted the kid with his life—literally, as it seems, because the moment Peter slid through the doors and shut them, bullets rained down on them from the other side.

So, their absence had been noticed.

Through the doors was a broad room that Tony barely had time to take stock of before Peter was, again, ushering him through it and to the other side, where another set of doors awaited. All he knew was it looked like a lab—beakers and chemicals and microscopes and other scientific equipment lining the table eerily. The thought of what was coming to them had Rhodey and co. not made their move now gave him chills.

But now was no time to think. Peter began leading him down another hallway at a jog, and another _boom_ sent them grasping onto the walls for support as the building rumbled; it was a generous reminder that they were not free just yet.

Eventually, Peter brought him to another door, except this one was different. A dark metal with a heavy latch.

Panting from the effort of their running—in which neither Peter nor Tony had done much of this week—Peter told him, “This is where it’s happening. Behind here.”

Tony raised an eyebrow He could hear the gunshots vividly now. “So what are we waiting for?”

Peter paused. “There’s a lot of people with a lot of guns. Give or take fifty. Not all Declan’s men, for sure, some are probably military. But there’s a lot of crossfire.”

“So, what,” Tony asked, “you want to backtrack?”

“No,” Peter said quietly, then went back to listening. “I can hear an air current, right above this door. A vent, probably.”

“Oh my god,” Tony said. “You want us to go through the vents? Like in an action movie? Because that would be kind of cool.”

“Exactly!” Peter said, smiling. “That way we don’t risk being caught or shot when we’re sighted. We’ll just have to move quick.” He stilled. “I can also hear them behind us. We don’t have much time. So let me grab onto you, and I’ll pull us up there.”

“Wait—oh.”

“Yeah, Mr. Stark, you’re not getting up there on your own.”

“You sure you can handle it?” Tony asked cautiously. “You’re not going to pass out while crawling from the effort, right?”

Peter eyed him critically. “No. I’m not that weak. Wall-crawling is like breathing to me at this point.”

Tony raised his hands in surrender. “Never said you were. It was a legitimate question! You haven’t gotten a proper meal in ages.”

He sighed.

“Whatever, just go, go!”

Peter opened the doors. Tony didn’t catch much of the fight that was ensuing though, because Peter was definitely agile. He was on the wall pulling Tony up to the vent before Tony could realize what was happening. From what he’d seen though, it was exactly what Peter had told him—U.S. military, along with his best friend circling through the air dodging missiles and other AAW their captors were equipped with.

Seemed like they’d been prepared for a break-out attempt, because they definitely had the equipment to give even Rhodey, an experienced fighter, a challenge. There were just so many enemies. They outnumbered their rescuers by a great amount, and for the first time since they’d woken up Tony had a sliver of doubt creep into his mind.

No, Rhodey’s got this. He has to got this.

They work their way through the vents. It was a tight fit for him, but Peter crawled through easily, and eventually it—surprisingly enough—lead directly to the outside walls. Tony gave Peter another minute to survey their surroundings before he kicked the cover off, and the fresh air immediately punched Tony in the face.

Suddenly, he wasn’t here in some facility with Peter. He was back in Afghanistan, and he’d just made his escape from the cave, and although the air was hot and humid and gross…it was _fresh._ He breathes it in like someone who’d been starved from it—he had been, in fact. In the cell it was stuffy and dry…but it was a cool morning outside here.

Another bang snapped him out of his flashback and made him flinch. Peter was still in front of him, also still at the exit.

“Kid?”

Peter’s shoulders twitched. “Did we…do it?”

Tony gave a soft nudge. “Almost. We’re not in the clear yet.”

He watched as Peter steeled himself, and then jumped out of the shaft. Tony followed, a little less gracefully, and stumbled onto the grass. His legs felt like jelly, but he willed himself to not collapse—the lack of use had gotten to his muscles, and they needed a minute to adjust. But they didn’t have time. So they trudged on, a couple hundred feet, before Tony turned around and looked at what had been their home for the last few days.

It was descript, but also…not? In one sense of the term, it looked like an ordinary research facility—and it was huge. The walls were all white, some of the paint peeling, and the windows—or lack thereof—gave off a feeling of uncertainty. There were no outstanding features about it. Just an ordinary building.

In the middle of the woods. Yeah—that’s right. Everywhere he looked were trees, and there was not even a hint of civilization around them; instead, a vast landscape of nothingness besides nature, except for a dirt road that winded from the front into the darkness.

The last time Tony had been out here was when he carried Peter in. And even then, he didn’t get the chance to see much.

More gunshots. The battle wasn’t over, and Tony and Peter needed to get away from there. Not everybody was going to be occupied with the fight, especially because of their noticed escape. Declan was smart—he wouldn’t waste his resources.

“Ready?” Tony asked the kid next to him.

Peter seemed puzzled. “Where are we going to go?”

“Away from here, for now,” Tony replied. “Rhodey’s got this. So, let’s hang along the perimeter, wait until he finishes up, and that way he doesn’t need to search too hard for us.”

“Alright,” Peter agreed.

They discovered a chain-link fence lining the edges of the property, but both he and Peter scaled over it quickly. From there, they took off at a sprint into the forest. One of the things Tony noticed as he was running, was that it was fucking _cold._ And while their captors had given Peter a plain, grey tee to wear fresh everyday it was not nearly enough to protect against this weather. And it was April!

Another reason why they didn’t go far. They hovered in the shadows, but just close enough to keep an eye on the buildings, to know when the fight was done. But the time dragged, and dragged. They found a spot to settle. It was dangerous, he knew, but if Rhodey was successful, then it wouldn’t matter. And Tony trusted his friend.

Eventually, Tony noticed Peter shivering, so he motioned for him to come closer and they shared body-heat as they huddled in the leaves of the brush.

But Tony could feel the dread creeping back again. This was taking too long. Way too long.

But he waited. And waited. And listened to the warfare, and wished he could be of use. At one point Peter had suggested he sneak back in and try and see where he could help, but Tony had vehemently growled at him for even thinking of going back into the compound. Peter had seemed frustrated, but didn’t fight it.

He was just about to propose they get moving again, maybe deeper into the forest in order to keep themselves warm, when he heard the loudest noise yet. In a flash he’d looked back toward the facility, just in time to catch the flickers of orange and red begin to rapidly envelop the walls. A gasp from Peter, and suddenly hands were wrapping around his waist and shoving him to the ground as a strong force knocked them both back a few yards.

Tony barely registered his head smacking against the ground and Peter tumbling next to him, before he knew nothing but black void.

When he awoke, he remembered everything. There was no fuzziness. There was no confusion.

There were hands prodding on his body, but Tony shoved them back furiously. A ringing in his ears. He thought he could hear a voice calling his name, but his sounds were muffled, and as Tony got to his feet, he only had one thought on his mind.

He shuffled to his feet and faced the carnage. For a moment, his brain short-circuited. The facility— _all_ of it, was blown to smithereens. Completely annihilated. There was rubble _everywhere,_ and plumes of smoke reached to the heavens with its dark grey tendrils. Fire was catching on a few flammable surfaces, but…nothing was there anymore.

It was gone. All gone.

_Rhodey._

His friend, who was determinedly trying to help them escape—who _did_ help them escape—Tony didn’t know what had happened. He _needed_ to know what happened. Tony didn’t do _not knowing_. Without thinking he could feel himself running back toward the destruction, but was stopped when hands latched around his chest.

He tried to fight against them. He really did. He tried kicking, he tried shoving, but they held fast and relentlessly tugged him back.

The ringing in his ears slowly faded and desperate pleas reached them instead. Pleas to get him to not run back, that it was dangerous, that there was nothing they could do about it now. Tony tried to block them out, tried to compartmentalize like he always does, but he _needed_ to see if Rhodey was okay.

But the hands wouldn’t let go, and he violently fought. At one point he managed to get a hit in, but even then he was still being held.

“ _Mr. Stark, please. Please! Come back to me.”_

And for a brief moment, he stopped. Breathing heavily, eyes never leaving the holocaust before him, he let himself fall into the arms holding him. Comforting words reached his ears, and Tony finally, _finally,_ remembered who they were coming from. Peter.

But— _Rhodey._

Tony Stark did not cry. He was a hero, and superheroes didn’t cry. They were resilient, they were idols, they never showed weakness. Weakness was only an opportunity for villains.

So he didn’t cry.

But his heart howled, and howled, and he knew there was no way Rhodey could’ve survived the explosion—it was too big, too massive, and—

Peter. The arms had let go, and Peter had moved to the front of him, forcing his eyes to look away from the destroyed compound and into the kid’s face.

“Please,” Peter whispered, and Tony knew then that he needed to pull himself together. It wasn’t just him in danger—he couldn’t be a martyr, he had someone else as a tagalong who couldn’t be subjected to Tony’s lack of self-preservation. He couldn’t have another death on his conscious.

When Tony thought back on it, he didn’t remember leaving. But he knew that Peter had tugged him away as they made their way through the brush. They’d strayed from the road—the only thing that could lead them to safety—because it would be too predictable. If Declan was still looking for them, it’d be obvious what they would do.

Or at least that’s what he thought Peter told him. He didn’t remember much.

He thinks they might have stopped in a small clearing of trees somewhere. Peter had moved around him, checking him for injuries, and Tony _knew_ he should do the same (it was _his kid,_ _his responsibility_ ) but he couldn’t make his mouth work, let alone his limbs.

It stayed like that for a while. And Tony fell asleep, next to a clump of ferns, wondering why life was so cruel to him.

_Why did he deserve this?_


	8. Berries, Rivers, and Guns; Oh my!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doot doot, I am having a FULL ON motivation spur right now thanks to y'all's comments. You guys are too kind!
> 
> Also helps I'm out of state for soccer so I can't do anything else, but I DON'T CARE. 3 updates in 2 weeks makes me happy. Though the next update may be a bit longer while I transition back to doing schoolwork.
> 
> This chapter is a bit calmer. I've kind of been throwing thing after thing after cliffhanger after cliffhanger at y'all and I needed to remind myself to slow down a bit. So, yeah, this chapter settles things down for a bit. It's not the most exciting, but oh well.
> 
> TWs; brief reference to suicide, violent flashbacks
> 
> Enjoy!

Peter just tried to keep them moving.

It was not an easy task, he discovered.

He knew Mr. Stark was trying, but he wasn’t _all_ there mentally. It was similar to the incident where Rhodey got paralyzed, how Mr. Stark was acting—distant, absent. Peter felt just as guilty. He knew he should’ve gone back—maybe he could’ve helped do something? But then again, he wasn’t full strength, didn’t have his webshooters, and there were so many guns.

They were a complete an utter clusterfuck, but Peter understood that they need to keep trudging along, otherwise they risked being caught. The chances of rescue were now exponentially slimmer—the amount of death that had accompanied that explosion was too great for their rescuer’s resources to be used on them. And… they probably didn’t even think they were alive. They didn’t know they’d escaped—only Declan did.

The whole place must have been rigged to blow in case of a scenario as such. Declan always knew what he was doing—he always had a reason. Peter figured while the military and other police (SHIELD?) were recovering from the attack, their capturers would be looking for them vigorously. And nobody would stop them…because who would be looking for dead bodies?

They were on their own, as always. And they’d been walking for _hours._ Through the canopy of trees above him, Peter could see that the sun was reaching the late evening, and did he mention it was _freezing?_ They were still somewhere northeast, that much he knew for sure—but they were also somewhere where there was a really, really huge forest that just didn’t seem to end no matter how much they wandered.

Peter used the sun for guidance (and warmth) as much as he could, preventing them from going in circles. He could feel the hunger and thirst and fatigue starting to get at him, but he was determined—they were _so close_ to freedom, he just needed to get a little further.

At some points he picked up the pace in order to keep his temperature up, but he knew Mr. Stark didn’t have the endurance to keep up with him simply due to Peter’s enhanced abilities, so he was forced to slow down again. Eventually, though, even Peter grew exhausted. So, he found a small clearing, and helped Mr. Stark lay down without a word.

His mentor fell asleep quick, and Peter was left to nothing but the sounds of the forest and Mr. Stark’s breathing. It was…bizarre. And lonely.

For a moment, he could feel the tears springing on at his predicament. He would give anything to see May again, Ned again, hell—even MJ or Flash and his stupid shit-eating demeanor. He wanted to take another Spanish test, or joke around at Decathlon practice, or fly between the skyscrapers of downtown once more.

He wanted to go back to being a kid.

Frustrated, he held back the waterworks and looked at the sky. Here, he couldn’t be a kid. He had to make sure both he and Mr. Stark got out alive—Mr. Stark _especially._

So, he decided to take watch as Mr. Stark slept, and scaled a nearby tree quickly. He figured maybe he could see something, but as he neared the top, his hope dwindled like a fire drained of oxygen. Nothing but treetops for…miles. He couldn’t spot any buildings, hear any sounds of cars—only cicadas and the occasional squirrel; they were completely stranded.

He settled himself in a nook between a branch and the trunk. At least up here, he could spot if someone was coming and give themselves a head start if needed.

His stomach rumbled and Peter curled into himself; at least in their prison he got three meals a day. Sure, they weren’t always kept down, but it was food nevertheless, and Peter couldn’t complain. But even as he thought it, he felt his hands trailing to his face and tracing the bumps of the knife cuts. A few came close to his eyes, but for the most part they lined his forehead and cheeks.

_Shackled to the floor, spread-eagled. Asshole, in his white shirt, was leaning over him. A shiv was drawn—brought down on his face—screaming. It was him screaming. A burning feeling traveling over his face, and then cold—he couldn’t breathe. Water escaped down his throat as he tried to inhale, and before he knew it he was keeled over, coughing on the floor._

Peter blinked, letting his hands fall beside him, and suddenly he, right now, was even colder, as though the flashback had seeped some of that from the past into his present self. He shivered, and the realization came sluggishly to him that he couldn’t just stay still up here.

So, he climbed down, and began to amble around for a while. He made sure he didn’t diverge too far from Mr. Stark, and stayed close enough to where he’d be able to hear if something happened. He focused most of his attention, though, on putting one foot in front of the other.

He was _so, so_ cold. At least Mr. Stark still had the long-sleeves from their dinner, so that’d probably keep him okay for now. It must’ve been around thirty degrees outside. The wind, thankfully, was only a light breeze, so Peter tucked his hands into his shirt and kept walking.

He knew he was going in circles. Was okay with it, really—he couldn’t leave Mr. Stark, and although he could feel his brain slowing down from lassitude, that was the only thought that stuck in his head.

It was then that Peter’s foot caught on something soft. It wrapped around his shoe (and he was forever grateful he still had the blessing of having shoes) and nearly tripped him, but Peter was quick to right himself. Stumbling, he shook it off, and then looked down at the perpetrator.

Holy—was he seeing that right?

It was a blanket. A fluffy, quilted blanket. Almost too good to be true. But he picked it up (he was holding it, so it must be real!), wrapped it around himself, and made his way back to where Mr. Stark was resting, feeling delightfully warmer.

His spider-sense would alert him if someone came up on them, right? He could take…just a moment to close his eyes, right? Sure, he answered himself, and laid down next to the older man, draping the holy fleece over both their bodies. For the first time in a long time, he let himself relax.

Peter was only half-surprised when he woke up a few hours later to find he’d simply covered them in a bed of moss, and that the blanket was merely a figment of his imagination.

* * *

Peter watched through his tangled, messy hair as the sun sank lower and lower through the trees. Any other day, he might’ve marveled at the almost liquid-like dyes staining the sky from its previous azure to a river of oranges and reds; but, now it was just a sign of an upcoming, boreal nighttime.

They needed to move on.

So, he leaned over and tapped Mr. Stark on the shoulder. The man had twisted and turned and it took Peter more than a few tries to get him up and going, but he’d eventually succeeded. Mr. Stark had mumbled an apology, and Peter was slightly happy to see that he seemed a bit more aware of himself.

Before they got to travelling, Mr. Stark had even demanded Peter take off his shirt and trade with him. At first, Peter had protested, but then Mr. Stark had pointed out how much he was shaking, and Peter decided he didn’t have the heart to fight him on this one. He needed to be rational—his lack of thermoregulation was going to get to him at some point, and while the long-sleeves weren’t heavy, they did keep him marginally warmer.

Mr. Stark had also questioned if Peter was okay, and Peter had decided not to tell him about his mishap with the moss. Was it a good sign? No, not really. Obviously. But was it their most pressing issue? Definitely _not._

They plodded onward.

They didn’t talk much. Peter knew that when they got out of this (he left the unsaid _if_ out of that statement) things were going to be so different. The amount of shit that had gone down this weekend, from Adam and Lacie, to the torture, to Rhodey…it was a mess.

Then, a thought occurred to Peter. “You know,” he said, “he might not be dead.”

He saw Mr. Stark tense up next to him. “Pete…”

“He has an AI too, right?” Peter rationalized. “I mean, he had to have known about the explosives. It’s possible he got out on time.”

“I never saw him fly out.”

Peter bit his lip. “There was a lot happening.”

“Pete…”

“Mr. Stark,” Peter said a little more desperately, “just…there’s nothing wrong with hoping. I need you to not give up on me now. We don’t know what happened. Let’s just…not assume the worst-case scenario.”

Mr. Stark looked like he wanted to say something more, but he didn’t. “I can’t, kid,” he conceded forlornly. Peter nodded sadly. “But I can try.”

“That’s all I need.”

The energy was only kind of more optimistic after that. Well, it was hard to be optimistic when you were in such a fuck-fest, but one had to make do with what they could. After some time, Peter started to tune things out.

The temperature was rapidly decreasing, and with it, his strength. Not to mention, he was super thirsty, and the energy he’d been using walking all day had his stomach fighting a valiant battle with his insides.

At one point, after Peter’s stomach had begun making itself not just know to Peter, but Mr. Stark too, the older man had suggested he try and climb a tree to catch a squirrel. Peter didn’t want to—he didn’t want to kill an innocent animal, but he knew if he didn’t, then he’d eventually run out of stamina and not be able to keep moving any longer. And not moving any longer meant two things. One, getting caught, or two, dying to hypothermia.

So, he’d listened until he found one, and tried his best at stalking quietly behind it. But the moment he went to reach for it, he suddenly wasn’t in the forest, he was on the ceiling in the torture room, and his hands—they were reaching down for one of the soldier’s necks, squeezing, twisting until he could feel the life _drain_ out of him, and—

He fell down from the branches and onto the leaves. Mr. Stark rushed over to him and Peter, at first, couldn’t be sure of what was happening—was he still back in his cell? Had they given him something to hallucinate? Maybe this was all a figment, like the blanket, piecing together a reality of a false sense of security—

But then he felt Mr. Stark’s arms on his, comforting, trying to get him to focus again, and Peter supposed he didn’t really have a choice but to listen.

They continued walking. At last, Mr. Stark stopped him and gestured to some berries hanging off a bush. Peter squinted his eyes at them.

“What if they’re poisonous?” he asked.

Mr. Stark gave him a look. “You don’t have a spider-sense for nothing, do you? I figure it would tell you if you were about to eat some poisonous berries.”

Peter thought about it, and then reluctantly agreed to the logic. Raising them to his mouth, he waited to see if he could feel a hum of danger, but his sixth sense remained quiet, so he took a bite. They were bitter, but Peter wasn’t sure he’d ever tasted something better. Being quite malnourished must do things to one’s mind, he thought wildly, as he shoved handful after handful down his throat, because he knew if he were back home and been served these he would’ve turned them away with a shake of his head.

They didn’t have anything to carry more berries in as his shirt didn’t have pockets, but he grabbed a few more branches and decided to hold them. He didn’t know if they were crazy popular in this forest or if he’d find more, and the thought of going hungry again made his skin crawl. He would’ve carried the whole bush if he could’ve.

It was hard to navigate the forest at night. It was terrifyingly dark, and because of that they both were sporting new cuts and lacerations from unforeseen branches and brush. Mr. Stark had tripped more than a few times, but Peter’s senses being dialed up proved to be useful here—he could see a little better than Mr. Stark, so he took point and did his best to lead them the safest path. Not that it was foolproof, but still—better than the alternative.

They must’ve been hiking for hours when Peter heard it. He stopped in his tracks, and Mr. Stark ran into the back of him with an _oof._

“What—”

“A river,” Peter said, astonished. He could hear _moving water._

Rejuvenated, they both began at a brisk jog in the direction of it, and after another good thirty minutes or so, they found themselves in the muddy sand of a creek. It wasn’t big by any means, maybe about 8 feet wide, but it had _fresh water_.

So they knelt down in desperation, both taking in generous mouthfuls, until Peter felt so bloated from drinking that he had to sit down. Nature had been kind to them this night. Although he was tempted to jump in and wash off all the filth from the week, his face and hands were already burning from the freezing temperature of the river.

They’d only been given bathroom breaks—no showers, and so Peter felt utterly disgusting. The temptation almost outweighed the risk, but then Mr. Stark was talking to him and Peter focused up again.

“Do we follow the river?” Mr. Stark asked aloud.

Peter wanted to answer _Yes! Of course they follow the river, it’s free water!_ but stopped short before the words could leave his tongue. “No,” he answered instead, and part of him wanted to cry. But he couldn’t—not here, not now.

_Peter, tears leaking down his face as he felt the whip latch itself around his upper back, like the tendril of a hell bound monster. A painful, stinging sensation; and then, he was being dragged up and thrown into one of the walls. Off-balance, he had no chance to correct himself, and his back slammed into the concrete._

_He screamed._

“They’ll expect that,” he said faintly, hating that he had to say this, that he had to force them away from comfort for the sole expectation that they couldn’t be brought back to that _place._ Not that the place existed anymore, of course, but they’d be fooling themselves if they thought that was the only available compound their enemies could use.

They sat in silence for a bit, and this time Peter couldn’t resist dipping his hands back into the river and bringing it to his face to wash off some extra dried blood. Mr. Stark had cleaned the wounds yesterday, but in their adventures, a few had painfully opened back up. His hands shook as he did it, and Mr. Stark must’ve felt pity for him for he was then tucking Peter’s hands back into the long-sleeves and resuming the process himself.

Peter had grown used to Mr. Stark treating his injuries—the man tried to be delicate, but that wasn’t always possible. Nevertheless, Peter appreciated it. He had fixed numerous wounds on his own from patrol, and he will say, he much preferred not having to do it himself this time. He honestly didn’t know where he would be right now if Mr. Stark wasn’t with—

He stopped that train of thought abruptly. That was selfish. To be thankful that the other man was here with him, suffering just as much if not more. How could he think like that?

When done, Peter made his move to get up, but was stopped short when the base of his nape began to throb painfully. He looked up quickly, trying to locate the source of the danger, and it didn’t take long before he found it—footsteps. Not too close, but not too far either—give or take 5 minutes away.

How long had they been at the river? Obviously enough time to give their captor’s time to find them.

“Peter, what is it?” Mr. Starke asked him warily, and Peter shook his head.

“They’re close,” he said.

He watched as Mr. Stark was about to ask _who?_ but then shut his mouth when he answered his own questions—only one person was looking for them right now.

“Four of them,” Peter continued. “Coming from downstream, probably following the river looking for us. They have guns,” he added when he heard the metallic clanking of the weaponry.

His first instinct was to run. Clearly, that was Mr. Stark’s initial idea, too, because he was already off the ground and making his way back toward the trees. He stopped, though, when he realized Peter wasn’t following.

What if…?

“Peter?”

Peter looked up. “I can take them.”

Mr. Stark blinked. Then, his eyes narrowed. “And why in the ever-loving fuck would you want to do that?”

“They’ll have warmer clothes,” he said. “And food. And water. Things we need.”

“Absolutely not,” Mr. Stark declined, and started forward again. Peter stayed rooted to where he sat. “Kid—please,” Mr. Stark begged, turning around once more. “I swear to god I will drag you away from here if I have to.”

Peter scoffed at the empty threat. “Please,” he said. “You couldn’t even if you had your armor. I’ll just stick to a tree or something.”

Mr. Stark looked frantic at this point, and Peter felt a little bad. But he had to do this; they wouldn’t survive much longer on what they had, and what they had was the fucking bare-ass minimum. “I just lost Rhodey, kid,” he said. One last attempt, Peter knew. “Don’t let me lose you too.”

“You won’t lose me,” Peter assured him, chest tightening. He could hear them getting closer. Not too far away, now.

Mr. Stark stared, and then finally, _finally_ realized he wouldn’t be winning this battle. After all, Peter knew he got his stubbornness from the best. “I’m going to help you though.”

It was Peter’s turn to be bewildered. “Absolutely not!”

“Why?” Mr. Stark asked. “Too dangerous? I thought I already told you that. Thought you were okay with it.”

“Mr. Stark,” Peter groaned. “We’re not doing this right now. They have _guns._ ”

“All the more reason I should back you up.”

Peter tightened his hands into fists. “Do you have a sixth sense that can warn you when a bullet is coming? No,” Peter said dangerously. “This _won’t_ work if I have to worry about you _on top of_ the four—may I mentioned highly trained—soldiers!”

Mr. Stark shrugged, and Peter grew angry. He rarely got angry with Mr. Stark, too—but holy shit the other man was acting like he _wanted—_

Peter stopped. _Oh._

Well, to hell if he was going to let that happen. They would be having a talk about this when Peter got them someplace safe and out of harm’s way. But for now, he had to think of something, and think of something fast. He didn’t want to hurt Mr. Stark—for fuck’s sake he’d done enough of that already, but he was sure they were close enough to the point where Mr. Stark could even hear them walking through the leaves.

Guess he’d just have to do his best.

He looked up at Mr. Stark, and briefly said, “Keep them occupied,” before he jumped up onto a nearby tree and climbed up to the top. He could see them now. Like he had figured, there were four, each wearing the same black tactical clothing as those in the compound and a single gas lantern between them all.

They were talking too, Peter realized, and strained to hear their conversation.

“Man, why did Windrow need to make us come out here at _four in the morning?_ ” one complained.

Another stifled a laugh. “Don’t be a pussy.”

“It’s cold, though, man. He has a point,” a third commented. “Who knows if they’re even still alive? There’s thousands of acres of forest here they could’ve gotten lost in, or fallen into a ravine or some shit. Why can’t the dick just get a fucking helicopter and scan for them?”

The fourth jumped in, voice thick with a British accent. “You know why. They’ve still got heavy eyes on this place, especially after the explosion. They’re wanting to send a team in, probably, but too scared to do so in case of another bomb.”

“Blowing up the place was dumb anyway,” the first spoke again.

“Eh, got rid of the evidence,” the second pointed out.

The British guy hummed. “Guess so. Man, I just want to get my pay and dip. Got kids to feed.”

The fact one of these guys, who were complacent to cruel and despicable things they did to Peter—a kid!—had children made him feel disgusted. He could guarantee that man wasn’t father of the year. Why couldn’t people, y’know, just get a normal job like a normal person? It would’ve saved Peter a lot of trouble.

Peter had to catch himself as he found himself losing focus and getting too enwrapped in their conversation. He took in a breath, and blocked the talking out there, preparing himself.

The quartet must’ve been following Peter’s lead, because they, too, were so distracted that they didn’t even notice Mr. Stark until they were practically right on top of him. But if they were startled at all, they didn’t let it show as they took a few steps back and automatically raised their guns at him.

Peter held his breath.

“Hey boys,” Mr. Stark said casually, as if greeting longtime friends. “What’s _up?_ ”

Peter smirked knowingly at the pun, and took it as his cue.

He leaped.

This time, they were definitely caught off-guard, and they definitely showed it. Peter landed on the British man’s head first, instantly knocking him to the ground. Before the other three could even register what happened, Peter had switched targets to the next closest soldier to him, and had wrapped his hand’s around the man’s waist.

He blocked an elbow to the back of his head with a quick twist of his body, shoving them both to the floor. Scrambling, Peter dodged another punch thrown his way by rolling to his right and used his hands to get him to his feet swiftly.

Another soldier came charging at him, and Peter’s spider sense warned him as a projectile flew right past where his head had just been. It hit the tree behind him and Peter turned, eyes widening in surprise.

“You guys brought _dart-guns_ to this fight?” he quipped, and feinted right as the second soldier came up behind him again determinedly. “Man, if I would’ve known that I wouldn’t have bothered with the surprise attack! Was boring sitting up there.”

Another dart came soaring past his head as he stumbled away. For a moment, he became locked in hand-to-hand combat with the second soldier, and due to the fact the other two couldn’t get a clear shot without hitting their comrade, they also holstered their guns and rushed at him.

Peter, although being out of practice for a little bit, still retained everything he knew. Once he found an opening, he grabbed the second soldier and threw him toward the other two coming his way. Two collided with each other, knocking them both to the ground, and Peter rounded on the third.

It only took two seconds before he also had that one pinned, and for a moment, Peter breathed. Then, he gave one more punch, knocking the guy out, and then moved to the other two. They were still on the ground when he got to them, and while he was able to land a kick to one’s head, the other made a move for his ankle and Peter felt his leg get dragged out from under him.

The man maneuvered his body over him, taking out the gun again, and while Peter’s senses yelled at him to _move!_ he wasn’t fast enough. The dart connected with his shoulder, and Peter blinked at him.

“Rude!” he bit out, and then brought a knee to the man’s groin, who then proceeded to fall over in pain. Peter didn’t feel bad in the slightest.

He could feel the effects of the drug making its way through his system, but they obviously were not yet designed to take Peter out in one go. It took a few tries, but he eventually found his footing and stood up, turning around in triumph to where Mr. Stark had been before.

What he was not expecting to see was the first guy, the British guy, holding Mr. Stark at gun-point (dart-point?) before him. Well, fucking hell—he’d thought he’d all his bases covered! Whoops.

“Get on your knees,” the soldier demanded, and Peter cocked his head. Maybe he did overestimate these guys.

Peter made his move to comply, lowering himself down, and found purchase on what he was looking for. His fingers closed around the rock, and at the same moment he threw it with just enough force to be dangerous and distract the soldier, Mr. Stark bucked back and grabbed the gun right out of his hands.

Yeah, he overestimated them.

Smiling, Peter waltzed over as Mr. Stark took aim and fired the dart at the British man. He collapsed almost instantly.

Peter’s metabolism must be doing wonders. His fingertips were a bit numb, and so were his toes, and his tongue felt a little to big to fit in his mouth, but other than that he wasn’t passed out on the ground like that dude.

“G’job,” he said to Mr. Stark, and allowed himself to fall to his butt.

Mr. Stark walked over. “Jeez, kid, and you were worried about me being the one getting shot.”

Peter snorted tiredly. “Couldn’t move quick enough,” he explained in lieu of a comeback.

Mr. Stark leaned down, and in one quick motion he’d ripped the dart out of his shoulder. Peter flinched, but other than that, his body was increasingly becoming more numb, so he barely felt it. “Ow,” he still mumbled.

He watched as Mr. Stark then proceeded to make sure the other three were also out of commission before stripping them of their items. One of them was carrying a backpack, which Peter was delighted to find was filled to the brim with granola, MRE, and apple slices. Furthermore, each had a canteen of water and a belt, which Mr. Stark grabbed two of, and made his way to the water to fill them.

After that, Mr. Stark grabbed two their jackets. They were slim-fitting, like an athlete’s sweater, but were surprisingly warm, Peter found, when Mr. Stark wrapped one around his arms. Finally, his mentor grabbed their guns, and threw them in the river.

_“Team Delta, come in.”_

Peter whipped his gaze over to the British dude laying next to him and made a move to grab the radio. Just then, though, Mr. Stark walked over and snatched it from his fingertips.

Before Peter could say something in protest, it, too, was in the river.

“Not a good idea,” Mr. Stark reprimanded.

Peter sighed. All he wanted to do was tell Declan to go fuck himself.

Mr. Stark offered a hand, and Peter grabbed it, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. The belt and canteen was connected around his waist and Peter, although mind somewhat fuzzy, knew they needed to get away from here.

Mr. Stark read his mind, and so, they continued walking. After a while, the sky started showing the slightest hint of daylight, and while the drugs had worn off Peter a while ago, he was still tired. His feet were killing him, and he knew Mr. Stark was tired too, so when they reached small break in the trees he didn’t even say anything—just laid down on the leaves and sighed in satisfaction. At least he was warm.

Today had been a good day.


End file.
